Intro Retrospection
by raingarcia022
Summary: [MacStella]They went forward, but the past couldn't bury itself. Updated: Chapter Nine
1. Polar Magnetism

**TITLE**: Intro Retrospection

**AUTHOR**: Rain Garcia

**RATING**: T

**CATEGORY: **Casefile and leaning a bit towards A/U.

**SUMMARY**: They went forward, but the past couldn't bury itself.

**FEEDBACK**: Yes, all the way. Makes the muse insanely happy that I have to put her on Tylenol.

**DISCLAIMER**: Not mine. Just borrowing.

**A/N**: This will be a run of at least twelve to thirteen chapters. It's pretty long, so please, please be patient with this (I know I'll have to be patient with my moody self).

Just to make it clear, in some parts, I'll be alternating between the past and present. It's going to unfold in both ways at the same time, just so no one gets confused.

Endless thanks to those who R&R "_Checkmate_".

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**CHAPTER ONE: **Polar Magnetism

January 22, 1991

Their official wall clock was indicating that it was already half- past midnight; the next shift was about to pour in their meager offices, but no one still budged or gave a damn. Everyone had their own businesses to take care of. They were all either struggling with the lure of sleep or the itch of their tenacity.

On one side, eager bug- eyed policemen started to pack their briefcases, waving lackluster goodbyes to attentive colleagues. On the other side, apprehended criminals and their captors kept their shouting matches at ear- shattering decibels.

This was New York City, in the early morning. And he was still having a hard time telling when the city would actually sleep. Sometimes, it felt like she never did.

Mac Taylor stood up from his rickety swiveling chair and lifted his arms high up in the air for a good stretch. He had been working for ten hours straight - doing everything from filing cases, collecting fingerprints, making reports of his previous run ins, and generously giving coffee away to anyone who needed it. Being the _so- called _rookie of the NYPD, he felt the need to socialize a little bit more. He had only been stationed in New York for eight months. It was enough for him to say that he had friends, but not to say that he was at home with any of them.

Honestly, if it wasn't just for the higher paycheck that he desperately needed for his upcoming wedding, he wouldn't have left Chicago at all. But somehow, the city seemed to be a magnet for engaged young women - like his fiancée. She practically bounced on his lap when the NYPD offer came into their conversation, pleading and batting her eyelashes at him. She had a sister in New York and she expressed her fervent desires to spend some of her last single-status-time there. For even stranger reasons, she thought that raising a family in Manhattan was the greatest thing since sliced bread. He thought otherwise, but that wasn't important, anyway.

He took the last sip of his now- cool coffee and started toward the garbage can. He was beginning to crumple the Styrofoam cup when Detective Dave Patrick approached him. Mac immediately disposed of the cup and faced his boss.

"Hey sir. What can I do for you?" he opened at once, ever eager to lend a hand. This attitude often reminded him of the pathetic newcomers in his old office in Chicago: the way they straighten an inch higher when he came in view, the way they tried to carpet every centimeter of his footsteps. But that didn't matter to him. There was nothing to be embarrassed about here in New York. He was _Tabula Rasa_, a clean slate. He can slip and land on his ass and he wouldn't care if anyone laughed at him. No one knew him well enough to enjoy the mishap.

"Hey Taylor, I know you're on your way out and that you have been working like a fucking dog the whole day, but I have one last favor to ask you. I need to go early because the wife is now screaming _'bloody murder' _…_" _Patrick shook his head, ruffling his already disheveled ashy blond hair as he continued. "Anyway, Officer Fein is with a shoplifter on my table and her prints are needed. The store owner is still deciding on whether or not to press charges, and mother fucker, is HE taking such a long time to decide!" He smacked his fist on the nearby wall, the hollow thud barely heard in the chaotic space.

"… While he's deciding outside, can you process this young woman for me? Fein should've been off- duty since eleven."

It also didn't matter that he was going off- duty in fifteen minutes himself. No, of course not. He needed the boost, as much as he needed the overtime pay.

"Yeah, sure, I can do that. Where is she?"

Patrick tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the already nodding- off Fein. Seated beside him, on Patrick's freshly minted desk, was a mop of curly brown hair.

"That her, huh?" he asked. Patrick agreed tiredly. "I can take care of this. I'll tell Fein to go now."

"Good luck, Taylor. The store owner has been trying to decide for the last thirty minutes and he apparently had called every living relative in his family tree." Patrick waved him away, giving him one last tap on the shoulder before practically flying out of the whole crazy scenario.

Mac shrugged. He was going to take his time; he had no one to go home to anyway. Claire was still having her festivities with her girlfriends.

He walked to his boss' table, nonchalantly greeting rugged colleagues as he did so, and upon reaching his destination, he immediately told Fein to go. The policeman whispered a gracious "thank you" to him, handed him the necessaries, and also followed Patrick's footsteps out of the office.

A smile lightened up Mac's face: He liked it better this way. When he was all alone, he could think and act better. He could produce astoundingly good results for all the supervisors to see.

Seating down on Det. Patrick's newly cushioned chair, he saw that everything was laid out on the table for him to feast on. All he needed was the fingerprinting ink. He began to search through the piles of objects on the table.

"Ma'am, if you would kindly put your hands on the table, I need to uhh," he paused, squirming as he reached underneath a mountain of case folders to retrieve the ink, "take your fingerprints-"

"Sure, fine, whatever," the woman said, then smacked her hands in front of him. The handcuffs rattled as they met with the wooden surface, groaning against the redness that it was embossing on her wrists.

At the sound of her sharp voice, Mac lifted his head up to take a good look at the lady.

He noticed that she barely had make- up on. Despite this though, he thought she didn't need any of that. She carried with her an impeccable flawlessness - from the tilt of her eyebrows to the height of her cheekbones, all creating a grandiose compliment to her olive skin. Her bouncy hair fought for stability on her rail thin shoulders, and the funny thing was that the shade of her hair matched her sleeveless T- shirt. She also faintly smelled of strawberries, and he silently wondered if that was the root of her crime.

He gently held her hand and guided her throughout the printing. At his peripheral vision, he could see her watching him with the eyes of a hawk. At the back of his head, he marveled at how a 'criminal' could have such soft skin.

Usually, he finished these tasks without any flaws. He rarely talked to suspects--- and if he actually did, only to ask for their middle initials, or if they wanted to get a lawyer. But for some bizarre inexplicable reason, he found protocol too far gone when he accidentally lifted his head up, making him gaze straight into the woman's eyes.

Quickly, they broke their stares off, both finding something else more amusing at the far (and opposite) ends of the room.

Finishing with her left thumb, Mac offered her a tissue paper. She took it without further meeting his eyes, busying herself with the cleaning process.

He grabbed this opportunity to take a look at her name on the file, and after squinting at Patrick's ungodly handwriting, he finally made it out:

Stella Bonasera.

He smiled. In his Chicago state of mind, it sounded so … New York- _ish _to him.

Mac watched as '_Stella_' finished struggling with the ink, and with a few blotched attempts to remove them completely, she gave up with a sigh. She placed the stained paper on the desk, then resumed her tight- lipped stance.

"How did you get caught?"

Stella cocked her head toward him, looked at him as if he was a serial nut with an addiction, then opened her mouth to answer him.

"Is that important? Do you need to file that?"

His smile broke into a grin. "No, it's off the record."

"Oh," she said. "Off the record, Mister -" she quickly glanced at his nameplate, "- Taylor, It's really none of your business." She wrinkled her nose and diverted her gaze again.

Mac found his grin intensifying, rather than being appalled. This woman was a piece of work, a piece of interesting work. It was no secret to himself that he was drawn to difficult females.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" he prodded, making Stella raise an eyebrow. "I heard that the store owner is taking all the time in the world in deciding whether he should file a case against you or not. This could get boring, especially if I have to detain you inside."

She gave him _that_ look again, then let out a sarcastic laugh. "You gotta be kidding me, right? Please tell me you're NOT hitting on me."

He lifted his arms out, shaking his head in amusement. "I'm NOT hitting on you. I'm engaged."

"Good. Because I have a boyfriend," she stated, slumping on the chair. Mac chuckled, for he immediately knew WHO this boyfriend was just from her body language.

"_The_ store owner? You're the one who's kidding me."

"I was hungry. He was greedy. What can a girl do?"

"I don't know, buy?" he suggested. Stella blew a strand of hair away from her face, exasperated.

"No offense, Mr. Taylor, but not everyone feeds off Uncle Sam like you."

"He feeds me first class meals, what _can _a guy do?"

She was probably surprised by his open humor – and maybe even his zeal – that she finally stopped staring at whatever blank wall, and faced him. When their eyes met once again, he thought that her irises had the most beautiful green he had ever seen.

He cleared his throat to alert himself. He was tired and was at the borderline for illusion. He needed diversion. Protocol- wise diversion.

"In case he does file one against you, I'm sure Uncle Sam would provide you the best lawyer and you can also feed off his hand, like me," he murmured, trying to sound helpful.

"I know my rights."

"Is that so?" he replied, leaning against his chair, "And how?"

"I finished my first year of college in Criminology." She rattled the handcuffs and lifted them so that he could see how they were affecting her skin. "I only wish that my goddamn professor told me how these darn things hurt like bastards. Or maybe that's for the sophomores."

"They don't usually hurt. You must have sensitive skin."

"Great. More for me to worry about." She rolled her eyes.

"So, how did YOU get caught?"

She, again, appeared surprised.

"You really want to know? You sound like it's the Fatima Prophecy," she said, eyeing every inch of him. "It's the prophecy for _stupid _humans everywhere."

"Sure. It might bring me salvation."

"Just my luck. A catholic."

They both snickered. Then, it became awkward, so they stopped.

"I was hungry, as I've said," she started, lifting her hands to tuck thick pieces of hair behind her ears. "And I had my boyfriend's keys to the store … so I kind of shopped around. I didn't know that he left his wallet and that he was coming back. And being so stubbornly stupid, thinking that he would laugh it all off, I didn't hide. I could've easily escaped, you know. But I didn't because I had to give him a big, fat, wet kiss. After that, he pressed the alarm."

"Business IS business."

"He didn't seem all business when he was giving me those fucking keys. How should I know that he gave them to me as a spare? And that I'm not supposed to use them?" She gritted her teeth. "Now look at what I've gotten myself into. Just perfect. If he presses charges, I'll have to serve the term because I have nothing on me for bail."

"Don't you have relatives who can help you out?"

"Probably … unlike you, Mr. Taylor," she said, her voice softening. She stared down at her feet and ironically smiled sideways. "I don't have relatives. I grew up in St. Basil's Orphanage and that's my very family." She lifted her head and exhaled. "I don't think they'll be happy to offer assistance."

He opened his mouth to console her, believing that he offended her in some way, but was silenced when Officer Dewey Johnson cut in. The brooding young man nodded in his direction.

"Mr. Trick Simile has expressed his desire to not press any charges. He only said, and I quote, '_If I ever see that bitch anywhere near my premises again, I will get a restraining order_'. So Ms. Bonasera is free to go." Johnson winked, as if telling them that 'shit happens'. "You can go too, Taylor. I'm here to relieve you."

Mac glanced at Stella, saw her blink away tears of frustration, and returned to Johnson.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute. Just let me release her." His colleague was quick to comply, finding something appealing by the water station.

Mac stood up and removed Stella's handcuffs. He returned them on Patrick's table, studied her while she rubbed her sore wrists, and helped her steady herself as she straightened up.

"You okay?" he whispered. She struggled to say 'yes', but nothing came out of her mouth when she opened them to speak. However, she pushed again, this time gasping out the syllables.

"He's my only fam – family. I … have nowhere to go." After that, she swallowed hard, forced out a badge of courage, and raised her chin high. Her eyes still shined beneath the airy façade, but he knew she was trying to be brave.

"Thanks for everything, Mr. Taylor. I'm sure I can manage," she supposed, barely above auditory level. She twirled around to leave him, but Mac held her in place by grabbing her elbow.

In that kindred moment, it felt like polar magnetism. The South to the North Pole for Mac. It was going against everything in his book, but he felt the incredible urge to help her. To give her something to eat, to give her something concrete to hold onto. Because it seemed like she had nothing left on her side.

"C'mon, I'll walk you out the station. I'll take you to a good doughnut place nearby and I'll help you work something out," he offered, noticing that he sounded as if he was giving an order rather than a choice.

Not that it mattered, because she already appeared to be surrendering herself to what he had to offer.

* * *

It was the traditional early morning city scenario: There were still people up on the streets, minding their own business, and acting as if sleep was the last thing they needed. Upon first experiencing it, Mac oddly found himself liking the 'night life', for it was always exuberant, always so alive. Rather than intimidating him, it made him feel safe – especially since he walked home to his apartment every day after his shift.

A cheese hotdog and two bagels disappeared from Stella's hands, and Mac was contented enough to stand back and watch such a tiny creature finish everything off in five minutes tops. It was refreshing to discern someone who wasn't concerned about her weight or whether the hotdog's calories would go straight to her ass. All she was worried about was biology. She _needed_ to eat, so screw them all.

He sniggered when she hurriedly struggled with the plastic of ketchup. Hearing him, she stopped chewing and gaped at him. She smiled, the sides of her face bulging like giant Faberge eggs.

"Never … sheen a lady eat … like a man before, Mr. Taylor?" she inquired, and he resisted the urge to bop his head immediately. He didn't want to offend her any further.

"Well, let's just say that you fascinate me." He sipped at his cola, smiling in return. Stella pretended to think about that for a minute, then attacked her meal once again. This time, she was courteous enough to talk to him in between bites.

"I didn't eat lunch, you see. I AM really hungry."

"Yeah, obviously," he said, pointing at her with his drink to demonstrate his point.

Stella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "He must've burned all my clothes by now. He has a little arsonist streak in him."

"Then you can attempt to sue him back."

"With what? My strands of hair?" She shook her head to dislocate the curls, making Mac laugh. "I told you I have nothing on me, Mr. Taylor."

"Don't you have a job? Or anything? You seem smart and pleasant," he paused, for at that point, she snorted. He continued, "And you finished some college. People get by with less."

"My last job was as a salesgirl in a department store." She bit into her second hotdog, closing her eyes as if it was the tastiest meal on earth. "That was three days ago. Apparently, I'm not _conducive_ to a friendly environment. I always piss people off."

"You're not pissing me off."

"Yeah," she answered, opening her eyes, baring those green liquid diamonds at him again. "Its baffles the mind."

Mac wanted to say something – anything – back to assure her that she really wasn't in anyway annoying or rude, but he didn't. Instead, he allowed her to finish her meal in silence.

A few minutes later, he did the most absurd thing he had ever done in his newfound life: Walk behind the shadows of the streetlights with a woman that they arrested for theft. His SuperEgo was telling him that this was irrational, but Id was patting him on the back, advising him that he was 'goddamn fucking lucky'. He had to admit, Ms. Bonasera was quite a looker.

Not that he was Freudian, anyway.

When they were nearing his block, he promptly stopped the uncomfortable silence dead in its tracks and asked Stella if she had anywhere, anywhere AT ALL, to go home to.

She tucked her hands into her faded jeans' pockets, shuffling her feet on the pavement as they walked. "I know a cool homeless guy. He has the comfiest box/home. He's … sheltered me more than once," she replied, with a hint of embarrassment.

Mac inhaled steadily. He stole a glance at his companion and watched her hung her head and accept everything that was going on with her life. He was getting the impression that she had gone through a lot of these setbacks, on a day-to-day basis.

"You can stay at my place. I have a guest room, and I promise you that you can lock it and keep the key, too."

They both halted walking at once.

Mac recoiled. Shit. Just when he thought he did the most absurd thing to date, he had to topple it over before it even made his record book.

Stella's eyebrows furrowed and she brushed hair from her face. "You realize that I was arrested for pilfering, and that you don't even know my name, and that you're asking me to stay at your apartment, right?"

"I DO know your name. It's Stella Bonasera. And your arrest was premature. You were hungry. A girl has to eat. And he DID give you the keys." He turned to his side to face her completely. His shadow meshed against hers on the concrete floor as he did, creating a spectacle of impeccable union.

She removed her hands from her pockets and crossed them under her chest. "You surprise me, Mr. Taylor. I … don't, don't really know what to say."

"Try, will you?" He brushed his cheek against his shoulder. "We still have a few steps to go."

"Okay."

Silence resumed at once. But Mac broke it again when his apartment complex was in his line of sight.

"Look, I have an offer –"

"You do, _huh_?"

"Yeah," he conveyed, ignoring her tone of cynicism. "I think that you have a lot of potential … to be something more than you are right now. You're just lost and you just don't know what to do about your future-"

"Don't give me that crap, Mr. Taylor, I'm not in nursery."

"Mac - it's Mac, Ms. Bonasera," he corrected. Before he could go on, Stella cut him off.

"Then … uhh, it's Stella."

He wanted to tell her that it was one of the most beautiful names he had heard, ever since he saw Tennessee William's award- winning play live onstage. But of course, he didn't.

"Okay, _Stella_," he emphasized, "I think I can help you out. There's this department that I think you'd find interesting, because it doesn't involve just getting the bad guys. You try and process the evidence, the truth, which is very important."

"Crime Scene Investigation?" Stella piped up. Mac grinned and consented this. She lifted her shoulders, "I've heard about it, it's different from being a Fed or a NYPD officer."

"If you can study for a while and train through scholarship, I think you'd make a fine CSI."

"After being 'in the system'? I can't be a CSI," she murmured steadfastly, tightening her arms around herself. "That's like asking me to be the Statue of Liberty three hundred sixty- five days a year."

"You can try. You promised that you'd _at least_ try."

"That was if ever I'll be staying overnight at your apartment. There was nothing about this offer -"

"But I know you'd try." He saw the front door to his building and leaned against its Victorian- style stoop.

He confronted her: the green eyes that sparkled with the moonlight, the strength of her tongue, and the frailty of her spirit. "Think about it, will you? I can find you a good scholarship and an apartment you can stay in. I'm sure you'd do great."

She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to take this. "Mist-, Mac, I don't know what to say …"

"You said you'll try."

"I KNOW," she reinforced, letting a smirk escape her lips. "This is just too much right now." Then, the smirk evolved into a smile. A full- pledged smile. He knew that she was finding this unusually comical.

"Well?" Mac asked, bringing out his ring of keys from his back pocket. He turned his back to her to open the front door.

"Can … we at least … uhh, talk about this? I haven't been to school for years."

"They say it's never too late." With a twist of the key, the door opened. Mac nudged one foot inside and then looked down at Stella, who was still contemplating everything below the stoop.

Without any warning or any attempt to stare up, she climbed the stairs. Mac held the door open for her and she entered. He followed afterward, switching on the lights of the main hallway and locking the door behind them.

**END of CHAPTER ONE**

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**C/N: **There are subtle X- Files and Tori Amos references there. Brownie points to those who can guess which they are.


	2. Empty Playground

**SPOILERS: **For "_What You See Is What You See_".

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**CHAPTER TWO:** Empty Playground

May 14, 2005

"Hey!"

"Hey, you're late."

Stella squinted her eyes at Detective Don Flack. "You're starting to sound like Mac."

"But _I'm_ with style, Stella. Take note of that." He winked like an old tycoon who won another million dollars from poker. She laughed at the mental image first, then at him.

He lifted the yellow crime scene tape (plastered from tree to tree) for her, and she stepped in gamely, hauling her seemingly heavier crime scene kit. She bit the insides of her cheek, wondering what the hell she mistakenly put in there during her haste to get to the scene.

The sounds of successive police and ambulance sirens, the pushy media, and the worried civilians began to drown out as they trudged up the secluded front lawn. Old dried leaves blanketing the pathway crunched beneath their footsteps, and as they drew forward, more leaves began to flutter through the wind. Stella struggled with a few that kept sticking to her hair. Meanwhile, Flack brushed some from his vinyl leather jacket.

A house sat atop the little hill, resplendently porcelain and inviting. It had two floors, Stella could see clearly, and an open porch that even had one of those war- era rocking chairs made infamous in movies. A crooked see- saw that kept creaking from the breeze was built beside the abode, together with a pair of swings and a sandbox.

She'd love to vacation at the place, she thought, then choked that notion dead when one more step brought her vision to the crime scene itself.

Mac was already at the spot, kneeling obsessively over the sprawled body of an elderly woman, and giving Danny Messer and Aiden Burn orders. The two huddled near him, trying to hear what he was saying above the howling wind.

Stella shivered slightly.

Flack coughed out, brushed a leaf from his front lapel, and nudged her, "The vic is a sixty- five year old widower … a billionaire of a widower, that is. Apparently, her husband is Bryan Seferhs. Sounds familiar?"

"The Greek land developer heir – he was known for his flamboyant parties during the eighties. So this is THE Mrs. Diana Seferhs. Her beauty is supposedly so captivating that being jealous of the men surrounding her during their parties, Mr. Seferhs died of heart failure."

"You sure know your rumor mill," he observed, obviously impressed. Stella let out a laugh.

"I make sure that I know everything about the popular New York Greek society," she said. "I _also_ know that she lives alone. Who called it in?"

"Her gardener. He said that Mrs. Seferhs enlisted him for a three- day sweeping session of the whole yard - this _is_ a pretty big yard - and she hasn't called him in at least six months. According to him, he found this unusual for she used to have her whole property done twice in one month."

"Maybe she was afraid of something."

"Or _someone_," Flack corrected, scratching an invisible spot on his chin. "I asked the gardener if Mrs. Seferhs lives with a kid," he pointed at the mini playground, "he told me that she always had a little girl over, but he never _felt_ it was her kid. He was a father himself and he knew when it was someone's kid or not, you know?"

"The Seferhs never had kids either, so that couldn't be her grandchild. What if she adopted someone?"

"I had it checked, in case we need to be looking for another body here. There are no records."

"Well, to live in seclusion like this must mean you're hiding something OR someone. Maybe she's also protecting someone. Like the kid." By that time, Mac was staring at them. With just one beckon of his eyes, Stella directed Flack to near the body.

Stella scanned her eyes over the corpse. The once immortalized brunette hair of Mrs. Seferhs was now stained with the crimson splatter of blood, and to her dismay, even the woman's face was barely recognizable. The right side of her skull completely caved in, and she knew that through a much more direct examination, she'd probably see the insides. The thought made her stomach curl. Despite dealing with death for the past eight years almost everyday of her life, sometimes, the most random incidents could be the one to play with your mentality.

Mac leaned toward the vic's hand - where in between her index and middle finger, a few locks of dark hair were caught. He bagged it and set it aside in his kit.

"What do you, uhh, think happened here, Mac?" Stella inquired, crouching down beside him and also opening her kit.

Mac glanced up at her and gave her a wry smirk. "Where have you been?"

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she was afraid that if she did her stomach would give up on her.

"I was with … someone and I didn't have my kit with me, so I had to make him drive me back home – to get it. And so that I can also change." She grabbed a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.

"Was _he_ your date?" Mac muttered under his breath, then transferred his eyes down at the body. "You didn't tell me how your date went."

"Well, you didn't tell me how _yours_ went either."

Flack, who was watching them work, let out a low wolf whistle. "She got you there, buddy," he spat out, much to Stella's delight. Mac ignored him, and her last comment.

After, Flack was happy enough to back out of the conversation, telling them that he had to keep the media at bay down the hill.

"So, what did happen here, Mac?" Stella asked, surveying the perimeter surrounding the dead. "What's your theory?"

"_My_ theory?" he parroted, returning his attention to her. "Danny found a shovel that was discarded beside the swing, which has blood all over it. That's our murder weapon. And these brutal blows? It tells you that she wasn't just hit once. Probably a dozen times, if her skull was so fractured it collapsed inwardly."

"Crime of passion?"

"I'm guessing that it has something to do with money."

"Doesn't it always have something to do with money when it comes to THE Seferhs?" she sighed, making Mac smile.

Stella then spotted faint smudges of blood drops that were leading to the playground. She stood up and proceeded to the first drip.

"What's that?" Mac queried from behind her.

"Get me a swab, will you? I think I found blood."

He complied at once, and while he was browsing her items, she studied the nature of the drops. They were gravitational, definitely, and someone _or_ something had defiled them before they arrived at the scene. Probably the gardener who didn't see them? Or the killer himself?

"Uhh, Stella?"

"Yeah?" she called out, lost in her thoughts.

"Is it really uhh, necessary, strictly as _your_ boss only … to have your, _ahem_, underwear, umm, here? In your things?"

She froze.

"Holy fucking shit!"

Stella shot up from her stance - as if she was electrocuted - and jumped back to Mac and her kit. An intense crimson had settled on his cheekbones, and he was frozen between getting a cotton bud and looking down at what's underneath her evidence bags.

She also felt her face heating up. God dammitt, so that was what's making her case heavy. She must have tossed it there while she was dressing up and looking for new cotton swabs.

"I can take care of that NOW, Mac." She pushed him aside and pointed at the blood drops. She made sure that her hair was covering her unexpected flush, and that her underwear were tucked firmly and safely inside her pocket.

If someone could grant her a wish, right then and there, she'd wish that she could disappear and do the next tasks without having Mac see her. Ever again. And why, why did she have to wear that damn _leather_ thong? Why?

"T- These drops are leading to the playground … but they stop near the sandbox," her partner pointed out, trying to keep the tone of awkwardness below their atmosphere.

Stella composed herself and clenched her fists tight before returning near him to examine the evidence she found. Silently, she took a sample of the first blood drop, confirmed that it indeed was blood, and sealed it.

"Yeah, who- who's out there in the playground?"

"Danny's there. We found tire tracks going to the back of the hill. If this blood is not the vic's, then they took someone with them."

"Does she have defensive wounds?"

"On both palms, and a bruise on her ankle."

"It could also be that she hit the perp, making him bleed all the way to his getaway car."

"Could be," Mac agreed. "All we know for now is that the blood leads us to an answer, whomever it came from."

"Yup." Stella got up and dusted her knees. She placed the evidence inside her kit and closed it. Mac watched her do this, and got up himself when he realized that she was heading inside the house.

"What are you doing?"

She looked back at him and smiled pettily. "I'm going to check the inside. Who do you have in there?"

"Aiden. After the playground, I've asked Danny to assist her."

"Tell him the assisting will be done by me, 'kay?"

"That _should _come as an order from me, Stella."

"So order me now."

They stared at each other for a minute. Then Mac began to crack with an intercepting eyebrow that was directed at her.

"Okay. You can go in there and process the house."

Stella held up her index finger excitedly and said, "Thanks, Mac. I owe you one."

It was a few steps and a few seconds before she heard his reply.

"I think you _already_ paid me back."

She pretended to ignore that remark. She really did. But she couldn't help but mumble "bastard" under her breath.

* * *

She couldn't exactly believe her eyes when she set her foot inside Mrs. Seferhs' living room. There was barely anything inside of it.

She stood there for a minute, absorbing the sunken glory of who once were the grandest party- throwers in New York's history. She remembered seeing pictures of their mansion in Queens from the New York Times, including the lavish architecture and the fireplace that cost a heart- stopping two hundred thousand dollars.

And now, here it all dwindled down to: bare green walls, dusty chandeliers with busted bulbs, moth- eaten rugs, and … a computer in the middle of the dining room.

Shaking her head, she began to head to the machine. Now she had seen everything.

"Hey Stell," Aiden called out from the computer. She was already seating on the new AND oddly- placed rotating chair, intently browsing through the hard drive.

Approaching her colleague, she placed her kit down beside Aiden's and gawked from behind her. The screen was displaying a series of saved emails.

"Whatcha got?" she inquired.

"Death threats – and lots of them. But it must be cryptic, because they're so vague." She clicks at a random letter and points at a few words. "Look: '_Of the top of the world and your beloved Pink Spanish Heart, you will be taken and killed before the sun is down._' We have a regular Shakespeare, huh?"

"Or a regular _Jack The Ripper_," Stella remarked, making Aiden grin. "'Pink Spanish Heart'? Mrs. Seferhs is PURE Greek. I know that as a _public_ fact."

"Exactly. And there's more, which leads me to believe that there's someone else we should be looking for." Aiden flipped her wavy hair out of the way as she browsed through piles and piles of email, then with an 'Aha!', she opened the one she was pertaining to. "Tell me what you make out of this: '_She owns your Pink Spanish Heart and your soul, but she will not escape our incurable toll. She will be ours, and you will return to where you belong._' It didn't EVEN rhyme."

"I don't know, I mean, what the hell is this 'Pink Spanish Heart', anyway?" Stella added. Aiden shrugged, then excused herself from their conversation to order the Crime Scene Technician for the seizure of the CPU.

While this was going on, Stella decided to peek at the staircase that led up to the second floor. "Aiden, did you process upstairs already?"

"Yeah, but there was nothing there at all. This house is empty, except for the computer and a picture I found tacked on the wall over there by a nail," she pointed at the bare space directly underneath the stairs. Then, to Stella's face, she held up a sealed photograph.

Gently taking it, Stella ran her eyes over the evidence.

A tear from the nail's intrusion ebbed the upper left hand corner of the photograph, but it didn't desecrate the featured image of a little girl. She had the most abundant curls that were twisted in a bun on the top of her head, and a few strands fell down to her face like chocolate tendrils. She was grinning excitedly, baring her missing front teeth, and hugging a beat- up old teddy bear to her stomach.

A warmth enveloped Stella as she further looked at it. She wondered if Mrs. Seferhs had adopted this girl, or if she was in anyway related to her. More importantly, she wondered if this beautiful child was still alive.

She certainly hoped so.

Noticing the scenery behind the child, she returned the picture to Aiden. "That kid was definitely here before. That's the swing set behind her."

"I believe that playground IS for her."

"Could be." Stella picked up her case and moved toward the kitchen. "This wasn't processed yet, right?"

"Yeah. I'll be there with you in a minute."

When she entered the kitchen, she wondered if the place needed to even _be_ processed. There was absolutely nothing inside of it - like the rest of the house - and it was spick and span beyond belief. The counters were as white as snow, the walls seemingly glistening with newly- minted paint, and if it wasn't for the slightly leaking tap faucet, she'd get a camera crew and have it photographed for _Better Homes_.

"What the hell happened here?" she whispered under her breath, a million and one thoughts scampering through her head. The case, over- all, seemed overtly easy. But if they all looked at the big picture, there was just too much going on. There was the brutal killing, the news- whore media outside of the property, the possibility of another victim, a virtually empty house, and a playground. Somewhere there, it just didn't add up.

Her eyes scanned the tiled floors as she bent down to open each vacant drawer, then the walls, and then the expensive tables. After this, she dusted all the corners for fingerprints. Finding nothing in the said locations, she began to tear through the windows. With a loose profanity escaping her lips, she started strategizing how she was going to open the panes without scratching herself from the thorny bushes settled happily on the sills.

Carefully doting each of the windows, she still found herself hissing at the subtle, yet sharp pricks.

She was half- way thru when Aiden entered the kitchen together with Danny – who looked like he just saw Stella battling with Hulk Hogan (in the flesh) right before his very eyes.

"Ouch, that got to hurt," he commented, and at once neared her to offer some assistance. Stella gave him a half- smile, and had to roll her eyes. Danny Messer was one of her favorite co- workers, but he could be such an overprotective ass sometimes, even if she was older than him. This attitude she deemed as sweet sometimes, but Aiden also once confided to her how annoying it could get.

"Yo guys, Mac needs me outside for the body. I'm hitching a ride with him to the lab, too. What about you two?" Aiden inquired, hissing herself when she saw a particularly tricky thorn latching onto Stella's cuffs.

"We're going with Flack," Danny answered mindlessly, then his eyes unexpectedly brightened up.

"Wait, Stella, do you see that?" He waved his hand around the bottom half of the window pane. Stella squinted her eyes at the glass, only then seeing what he was seeing.

"A partial hand print! This just made my day." She gestured to Aiden, and her co- worker rapidly brought them a print lifter, together with her digital camera.

Stella took the print lifter with a 'thanks', then gave it to Danny. She knew that he was overwhelmed with the discovery, and he rightfully needed to get that print for his own.

He steadily stuck the lifter on the glass, and gently peeled it off to reveal another vital clue. Behind them, Aiden captured everything in her camera's memory card.

Stella moved away from the windows and inhaled deeply after they were sure that everything was handled. This was the start of another long haul.

She then looked at Danny and with a wink, saying, "Not so spick and span after all."

He pushed his glasses to the top of his nose and grinned. "It never always is."

**END of CHAPTER TWO**

**

* * *

**

**C/N: **Liz and Em get the Brownie points (great one!). Thanks to everyone who liked the first chapter. I know that this chapter is too clinical (in that sense), but I tried to make the most out of it. If I wasn't able to highlight the case rightfully, please forgive me. I'm still getting used to writing crime scene investigation. I hope that you like this one, though.


	3. The Balmy Sanctuary

**CHAPTER THREE: **The Balmy Sanctuary

December 19, 1992

That exact moment that he stood with the snow - in the freezing sub- zero temperature - and tried to breathe in all the stillness of New York into his lungs, Mac realized that there had been too many moments like these in his life lately. He kept finding himself outside and alone, shivering until he thought he couldn't feel his heart beating anymore. His inhalations would soften, his exhalations very belittled, and his eyes closed to a white darkness.

Each and every time that this happened, he would always end up at her doorstep, as if her apartment was some kind of a balmy sanctuary.

He'd knock feebly - trying to swallow the chattering of his teeth and sinking his uncovered hands inside his jacket's front pockets - then wait for her to answer. And as he waited for what seemed like centuries, he would gently put his head on the door and think that he had enough of this already.

The locks rattled and the door opened with a swoosh.

For a minute, she stared at him.

He refused to look at her; he was scared that if he did, he'd see the pity. Even back then, when she was nothing and he practically made her, he never did allow himself to give her any pity. Coming from the Marines, he firmly believed that pity was the last thing a person needed in his corporeal life.

Stella Bonasera wasn't as rigid, though.

"Mac," she whispered, opening her arms out to him in an unconscious gesture. He decided not to step into her hug, but she continued to hold them out. "Not again," she continued dejectedly, more to herself than to him.

He tried to shrug, but his shoulders were shaking as he lifted them up. "You'd think with our new house I'd have enough rooms to hide in. Guess I was wrong." He shuffled his feet on the welcome carpet. "Can I stay for the night?"

She gave him a look. One that said so much more and too much, one that told him that he could stay for _eons_ if he wanted to, but it was temptation and he couldn't take it. It was always one night; never going further than that. However, it never strayed from his mind: if he really, REALLY wanted to, he knew that he was liable to stay forever.

Suddenly, her hug was irresistible and he gradually stepped inside her shadow. She immediately wrapped her arms around his body, sinking the wet snow on her own pajamas, and he buried his face in her curly hair.

Everything felt nice and warm after that.

* * *

Stella wrestled with the cappuccino maker while he watched on from her kitchen's meager two- person dining set. He huddled to suffice some warmth in his body … even if the heater were a few steps away. She had gotten used to the decreased warmth of her whole abode over the year, and these conditions were partly his fault. He had to admit that he didn't get her the best facilities that he could find because of his own financial needs. But he was able to provide her with _something_ despite these complications and he was proud of that. She never complained, too.

He always believed that her mere presence could blanket the whole city with heat anyway.

The yellow bulb above him began to flicker as she finally extracted the cover from the appliance. Mac stared up at it with one raised eyebrow.

"You didn't tell me that your bulb's busted," he remarked, with a smidgeon of accusation. Stella snorted, and poured dark liquid on _his_ mug. It was quite sad to think (and also charming) that he had been coming over for so many times that he already had his OWN mug in her place. The worst part was that he was the one who provided it for her.

"It's still working." She brought two cupfuls over at the table and settled one in front of him. He placed his fingers around the porcelain to force some warmth into his veins. She then offered him sugar but he refused.

The light flickered like a hyperactive disco ball as she sat down and blew air above her cappuccino. Mac rolled his eyes, "You couldn't study here in the dining room if it's flickering like THAT. Where are you studying now?"

"Bedroom. I guess it's a lot more comfortable there."

"Don't you know that when you study in _too _comfortable regions, it disrupts the study process itself?"

Stella laughed thinly, just for the sake of it, and because he knew that she didn't have anything else to say. The reason for him coming in the middle of the night was hanging on top of their heads, crashing at the toes of their minds like tidal waves. There was no escaping it, though he found himself trying every single time.

"Tell me about your day," he tried yet again, and she held herself from giving him another defining façade. He needed the space and she understood that for the most part.

"Aside from thinking about you?" she teased and winked. Mac smiled, then pretended to be absolutely flattered from this. She laughed genuinely this time.

"I just found out that being in the honor roll AND a lot older than your classmates takes it toll sometimes. Geeks keep asking me out as if I'm the flavor of the fucking month. Another geek, Christopher … I think, asked me again today and I reiterated that I was WAY out of his league. He followed me home, the ass." Stella took a sip and rolled the drink around her tongue before talking, "They don't understand how it is to be a working student at _this_ age. Schedule's tighter than their balls." They both chuckled.

"I thought you asked for a transfer regarding your shift in the library?"

"I did, I did," she said, leaning back against the chair and propping her left leg atop her right knee. "But they only could offer me one period. So I literally have to run from the fifth floor towards the library every after lunch. STILL."

"That shits," Mac commiserated. "At least you get lunch. It was better than going for eight hours straight without any breaks."

"Yeah, at least."

They both shared silence after her last sentence. Stella refused to look at him as she downed her drink, and like a helpless captive, he meagerly followed her actions.

Then through her cup, Stella began to hum a song. Maybe off- key, and a little unusual for her, but she had a penchant for music and he had known her to use it from time-to-time. Especially as ice breakers. He always thought, unabashedly like a fanatic, that she had a better singing voice than most females he knew.

She stood up and left him momentarily to steal something from the refrigerator.

He sighed loudly and dropped his line of vision down to the half- empty cup of liquid that began to swirl and tremble in front of him. The vibrations made by the ten- wheeler trucks outside on the main road transcended into the room, making furniture and dining wares clatter in their continuous wake.

When everything silenced to their ultimate pristine forms, Mac started to speak.

"We've been trying to have a baby," he said, then paused as Stella paused herself too. She was halfway through the refrigerator, her head stuck in front of the water containers, her hand inside and grabbing something. Then he removed his eyes from her and returned down to his mug.

"We've talked about it in Rio, during the honeymoon. She said that she wanted two sets of twins. I wanted a boy then a girl. But despite our arguments about the children, we always agreed that we'd have kids in our first year of marriage. If not, we'll just keep on trying."

He heard Stella close the fridge and before he could even think about it, she was right in front of him, munching slowly on a slice of cinnamon bread. She didn't sit down on her chair; she only stood a few feet from his side, placing her hand on the table and anchoring her weight there.

"I told you before that Claire was really excited for the kids … she even bought that crazy little Rainbow bright doll that she would give to our first child. Whether it be a boy or a –"

"- girl," Stella finished for him, through her mouthful. She swallowed her food and then continued, "But you never told me about me being an auntie soon." Even if she was obviously lightening it up, he heard the snappish tone in her voice's arches. He had to admit that it was all his fault: they barely kept anything from each other and here he was, obliterating that silent trust. Especially with an incident this important to him. She would've expected to know first.

"Sorry, Stell. I tried to tell you, I really did … but even if we were agreeing on something, it wasn't promising. So I was edgy about putting it out in the open."

"Okay," she answered softly. He instinctively stared up at her, as if asking for a validation that they were really as she said they were. She smiled just as softly at him and he took that for what it was.

"This morning, before going to work, I accidentally stumbled upon some birth control pills underneath Claire's make- up supplies. I wouldn't have acknowledged them if they weren't new – we have been trying for almost a year now – but the date of purchase on the accompanying receipt said that she bought it a week ago."

His friend silently sat down before him and with a bewildered expression tainting her face, she took his hand in hers and encouraged him to continue. Mac, again, looked away.

"I – uhh, I tried not to think a lot about it at work, but I ended up calling her and there was no one answering in her office. When I came home, all hell broke loose. I confronted her about it and she told me that she … just wasn't ready."

"What does she mean she wasn't ready? You've been doing this for a year. You agreed on it." Her grip on his hand tightened.

"She said that New York posed more opportunities for her and the last thing she wanted to do was to be a working mom. But the thing is, you see, I took this offer in New York three years ago because of her persistence that raising kids here in the city would be a great challenge. I wanted to love the city the way she loves it, but I guess she was loving it for different reasons. Maybe that's why we couldn't see eye-to-eye lately. Even sex seems stale for the past few months."

"So she threw you out?"

He managed to chuckle at that, finding it crazily delightful how Stella could make a question rhetorical. He decided to respond, anyway. "Sort of. She said I was obstructing her hopes and dreams. And maybe I am, but I thought we were trying to make our hopes and dreams work, not only hers."

Stella bit her lip and shook her head, disarraying curls everywhere on her forearms. "Am I glad to still be single."

"Yeah, you're lucky." He shook his head. "I managed to grab a few things before I got out, though."

"You didn't need to," Stella countered. "You have enough here to supply you for a whole week."

He thought about that. Was that the punch line or the obvious truth?

Shrugging, Mac removed his hand from her grasp and rummaged inside the front lapel of his trench coat. He found what he was looking for and presented it on the table.

He pushed the black, velvet box toward Stella. It was the size of his palm, had red and gold ribbon wrapped around it, and a simpleton card hooked to the poinsettia that came with the bow. It read simply (with his sloppy handwriting), _To my second favorite lady in the world. Merry Christmas._

Stella gingerly received it in her hands and raised an eyebrow. "This is too early, don't you think?" she kidded. Mac snickered sarcastically.

"It wasn't supposed to be, but think that it's an advanced 'thank you' for sheltering me again."

"I'll take that." She placed the box down, but Mac returned it back on her palms, and closed her fingertips around it to make sure that she wouldn't dismiss it anymore.

"Open it. I had it custom made."

Stella grinned and rolled her eyes, and did as he wished. She tore through the ribbon, however, not without keeping the card near her mug for safety. When the shiny ribbons were discarded, she flipped the heavy lid open and bit her lip. Her head was bowed down so he couldn't really see her facial reaction.

"Well," he inquired curiously, nervously. "Do you like it?"

"_Well_, Mr. Taylor …" Stella's voice quivered as she closed the lid with a loud snap. "I do, umm, probably too much and thank you … but I can't have it."

Oh Christ. There they go again.

It was like the time he gave her this apartment, the time he bought her new furniture, new clothes, a thermostat to bring to school, a cake for her birthday, fake flowers from Rio de Janeiro to adorn her living room.

She always had to fight against it. And he always had to fight for her to accept it.

"I had that custom made in _Tiffany's_ for you **only**. I can't wear that while apprehending sex offenders, Bonasera." He reached over and reopened the box, turning it to her so that she could see how beautiful the jewelry was. "It's in Greek, see?"

"I can't understand Greek." She blinked profusely, and even underneath the flickering yellow light, Mac could see how she held back her tears.

"I'm hoping that someday you will. That's why you need this --- as a motivation." He stood up from his chair and hopped over behind her. He lifted the necklace from the box, unclasped the hook, and settled it around Stella's neck, flipping her hair away. Just as he had hoped, it perfectly rested on collarbone and also highlighted her olive skin. The golden strands meshed with the sheer luminosity of her complexion.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, while she felt for the necklace. She was still a little awestruck, he could tell.

"A little motivation won't hurt, will it?"

Stella pushed her hair away from her face. "Now that it's around my neck, I guess it _wouldn't_."

Then they both laughed together.

* * *

In the mornings, whenever he stayed over at her apartment, he would wake up before she did. He would make sure of that fact first, of course, by peeking through the open crack of his door and surveying the stillness of the living room. The scattered books that were piled up beside the basket of fake Birds of Paradises and Jasmines, the dormant cassette player, and his coat carelessly draped on the battered old couch were tell- tale signs of Stella's love of sleep.

He liked being the first one awake. He was able to buy breakfast form a nearby bakery, coffee from another nearby coffee shop, and even folded some of his things around so that when she got up, things would be ready for his departure.

But that morning it was different. He woke up to the octaves of Joni Mitchell (The song was _Case Of You_, if he wasn't mistaken) soothing his sore eardrums. He was cold, but when he left the bed to peek through the door's crack, he saw Stella clearing up the mess she made the day before, and everything was warm again. She was wearing those 1970's era of pink short shorts, probably the one she got from a flea market that she told him about, and a loose white t- shirt that had Prince's face splattered on it. She also was wearing the necklace he had given her, and it was as if the jewelry was dancing to its own beat around her neck.

It was sort of impossible to leave after that. So he decided to stay, just for another night. Just one more night and it wouldn't hurt a thing.

**END of CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

**C/N: **The evolution of this chapter is improbable. I probably had rewritten it thrice. I hope it came out as I wanted it to – as a parallel (or anti- thesis, if you may) to the first chapter and their conversation then. If it didn't, I'll safely blame it on my recent run- in with infection (heh). And I truly am sorry for the overdue update. I'll make up to it next time.


	4. Following His Orders

**CHAPTER FOUR: **Following His Orders

May 15, 2005

_"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."  
_- taken from "Ulysses", by Alfred Lord Tennyson

With squinted eyes, Stella raised her head toward the appalling rays of the morning sun. As the yellow jagged lines pierced her skin, she realized with a quiver that it was going to be one of those hot summer days --- those days wherein you'd have to check the news every hour just to see if the temperature had not hit a hundred yet.

She opened the top two buttons of her suit and resisted the assertive urge to kick the darn thing on the curb - and then waltz into the crime lab with only her sleeveless racer- back tank top. She heard that the CSIs from Las Vegas could actually do _that,_ but within Taylor's jurisdiction, that was second to Donald Flack being a macho dancer in impossibility.

Upon entering, she immediately spotted Mac seated on the receiving area. He had two cups of iced coffee settled on the nondescript table in front of him, a crooked brow, and a stern lip line. She also saw that his tailored jacket was discarded into a neatly folded pile beside him, accompanied by folded sleeves, and a slightly disheveled striped blue- green tie.

The first thing that came into her mind was that Mac obviously didn't have enough sleep again, judging from the dark circles cradling his troubled eyes. The next thing was that he _clearly_ was also feeling the heat. She wondered if he'd allow her to saunter with her skin- tone top next to him.

Remembering the incident yesterday, during their crime scene processing, Stella was putting her bet on him not minding. She could've sworn that he was a little entertained with what he found inside her kit.

"Good morning, handsome." She gleefully watched as Mac was momentarily jolted out of his skin by her voice, and then as a consolation, she graced him with one of her biggest smiles when he looked up at her. He immediately relaxed in her presence, patting the bare space beside him for her.

Following his orders (this was something she was so fucking good at that she should get a medal for it), she squeezed her ass in between Mac and the piles of folders that a random CSI left there for some weird reason. Looking at the musty pile, she stuck her tongue out and tapped her partner on the shoulder.

"What are these?" she inquired, motioning to the collection of yellowing folders and grabbing one of the iced coffees. Taking a sip, she let a sigh escape her throat when she tasted the hint of cinnamon in the drink. She wouldn't know what she'd do without a partner like Mac, who had known her for so long now that he even knew what she preferred in her branded coffee drinks. Well, she would never know what she'd do without iced coffee with a sprinkle of cinnamon (it was _hot_ coffee with a sprinkle of chocolate AND cinnamon during colder days) every morning, period.

Mac wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. "Those are some old, old case files that Detective Dixon stumbled upon. He found them in his new office and realized that some were already logged into the new database, so he's throwing them out. He's asking me to guard them while I'm waiting for you."

"I don't think they're going anywhere, Mac." She cocked the coffee's straw toward him knowingly. "Speaking of which, you should do the same. Let Danny log some of our older, closed cases into the new database and throw them out. Hell, you need some room in that office."

"I like to read them sometimes, without having to haul a huge ass machine with me. And the only reason I need some space in my office is because of _you_." He laughed a little, hunching down and resting his elbows on his thighs. "Remember when I told you how you could fill up a whole baseball stadium with just your mere presence?"

Stella squirmed a little, remembering what he meant all _too_ well. "Yeah, I, uhh, kind of do. Vaguely," she answered, placing substantial emphasis on the last word. Before Mac could say anything more, she quickly changed the subject. "Did you talk to Hawkes already? About his findings?"

He intricately studied her façade for a minute, but before she could start giving it some thought, Mac started talking, "I checked up on the urgency of his text message. He told me that he found an important piece of our puzzle inside the vic's clothing. He was really interested in what he could find in Mrs. Seferhs' body –"

"- Or simply interested in Mrs. Seferhs herself?"

"Yeah, that too," Mac agreed, with eyebrows raised. "He finished the autopsy just before the end of his shift last night. He sent us all a message this morning."

"_All_ of us," Stella reiterated objectively. "So where's Aiden and Danny?"

"I assigned Aiden to the fingerprint you found inside the immaculately conceived kitchen. Danny's still a no show, probably partied too hard last night," Mac chuckled, bringing Stella's sense of humor back in front of the reigns, too. "But I've asked Aiden to tell him what I've said. He's in charge of everything that's connected with blood."

"Ah, being a junior is a bitch," Stella commented with a smile, then stood up, making sure that she's cradling her drink close to her lips. "So its just you and me to the morgue, huh?"

"Not yet, impatient one," Mac absentmindedly tugged her arm back down, while savoring his own coffee. "We still need Dixon to come and take his trash."

She paused before resuming her seat back down beside him. While she chewed on her green straw, she studied her partner intently; taking invisible notes about the way his eyebrows crinkled, the slip of sweat from the back of his neck and to his collar, the rigid tightening of his lips, and the continuous tapping of his feet on the tiled floor.

Of course, how could she miss that? Mac wasn't exactly her poster boy for patience too. Though this virtue was something they always had debated upon; when the case was hot, it was also hot for Mac. He had the aphrodisiac tenacity of a vampire bat upon the sight of an interesting case file, no matter how much he denied it.

"Okay, Mr. _Let's-Wait_, spill."

Mac raised an eyebrow in her direction, but didn't exactly second guess her familiar demanding demeanor.

"I researched a bit about Mrs. Seferhs' remaining wealth in the internet last night, to see what's public and what's not."

"So which is which?"

"I learned," he started, pausing to take a sip of his iced coffee and to leave it half- empty, "that after her husband died, Mrs. Seferhs started going to auctions, trying to find things that are beyond worth. She probably saw it as a replacement for her husband's company, these beautiful things. She's bought so many precious items – not to mention very pricey - that I lost track of them. But there is a very prominent object that caught my eye."

"Uh- huh, I'm still listening," Stella encouraged through her straw and the remaining contents of her refreshing drink. She realized (with a hint of embarrassment), that she had polished most of her coffee and that Mac had actually only just began with his. She gave the plastic container a condemning eye, then decided that hell, she'd deal with the calories later.

"Does a certain _Pink Spanish Heart_ alert your memory?"

Almost choking on the liquid that was cascading through her throat, she swallowed it all in one rather painful gulp, then stared dead straight at her partner, as if she was seeing him through a sniper's crosshair.

"Dammitt, Mac, next time you make 'discoveries' like that, PLEASE wait for me to finish my drink!" She regained control of her esophagus and pushed the container down on the table. At her peripheral vision, she could see Mac trying to contain a fit of chuckles. "So what exactly is this infamous Pink Spanish Heart?"

"A diamond that supposedly follows the Hope Diamond. If the Hope Diamond is 45.52 carats, the approximation for the Pink Spanish Heart is 39 carats." He raised an eyebrow in her direction, then as if on cue, she let out a low wolf whistle at the mental image of how huge that piece of rock might be. And of how valuable it could be for diamond whores.

"So that means that the death threats are not all riddles --- the perps are really asking for this Pink Spanish Heart, and _I_ wouldn't blame them. The problem is to find out whether she already had given them the diamond, or if its still somewhere in her assets."

"She _liquidated_ all her important and irreplaceable assets to a bank account in Greece just two months ago," Mac inserted at once, and Stella's eyes grew tens of proportions at the revelation. Her partner cleared his throat confidently, "I double checked with her bank and with government documents – at least with what's public. Mrs. Seferhs was going to move back home in Greece."

"After, after being the toast of the town for God-only-knows how long? I wonder what prompted this? They're practically a New York staple."

"And if there's one thing I know, I know that you CAN'T liquidate THE Pink Spanish Heart. Not a diamond that valuable. Or as important to her, it seems."

At the exact moment that Stella was going to ask him something that had been bothering her during the course of their conversation (and revelations), Detective Dixon arrived. He was a tall, gangly man with the darkest of dark hair, and bushy eyebrows that always gave Stella compulsions to jerk out a blade and make something out of them, or at least make his eyes visible. He also had a certain reputation among the female CSIs, more because of his good looks than his bedroom prowess.

He had repeatedly tried to date her during their rookie years, but he somehow stopped when Stella approached her problem to Mac. She once caught them talking intently, and after that, it was all over; she never had to worry about him again. Now, he was happily married to a fellow CSI at the midday shift.

"Hey Stella," Dixon greeted, toothily teasing her with a grin. "It's been sometime since I last saw you. You look great."

"Uhh, you too." She awkwardly gave Mac an eye, one that screamed that she wanted to get the hell out of there before the consummated man could force the coffee she just ingested out of her abdomen. "Well Mac, I think we better go and meet Hawkes now."

"Oh yeah." Mac stood up and shook Dixon's hand. While he said something to the Detective, he winked at her direction. Just to spite her, deliberately.

Stella squinted her eyes at him, as lethal as possible. She also made sure that Mac saw that.

A few minutes later, as they were on their way towards the morgue, Stella curiously looked at the man beside her. For some reason that was beyond her critical thinking, Mac appeared to be pleased with himself now as compared to their first meeting of the day.

Taking a huge breath that refreshed her lungs, she voiced out a little nag at the back of her head:

"I never thanked you for telling Dixon to buzz off a few years ago." When Mac tried to catch her eyes on him, she immediately withdrew her gaze. "I don't know why I never did --- I think it's because you never really told me what you told him."

Mac's steps slowed down a little to match her shorter ones, and he shrugged, "I only told him what he already knows. You don't need to thank me for that."

He placed a hand on the small of her back to lead her, like he had done so many times before. And as cryptic as his answer sounded, Stella felt as if it was all she needed to know.

* * *

"She died of a very, very blunt force trauma."

At the sound of Hawkes' words and his final diagnosis, Stella suddenly felt uncomfortable. She pushed the sensation down the pit of her stomach by crossing her arms above her ribs.

Mac shook his head, peering at the lifeless body that was laid out before them on the cold steel table. "I don't think we needed anyone to tell us _that_. How did it happen?"

"Blow-by-blow, huh?" Hawkes kidded, making Stella and Mac both sigh at the pun that WAS intended. Their Medical Examiner sheepishly scratched the top of his smooth head. "I can't estimate how many blows she took, but a particular blow …" He paused to adjust the florescent light right above the severed face. "Whacked her right zygomatic bone – the cheekbones. Then the blows strengthened on her frontal bone," he pointed at the forehead, "this bone particularly supports the foremost portions of the brain. After that, it was pretty much a downhill spiral. Her brain looks like mush, literally. I couldn't determine which nerve or artery gave up first."

"She did fight back, right?" Stella piped up, a little more hopeful than she wanted herself to sound. Hawkes gazed up at her and nodded. He lifted up a dainty arm and revealed the circular wound that Mac had told Stella about yesterday in the crime scene.

"Tell- tale signs, one each on both palms … but the bruise on her ankle seems to be five days old. It is not singularly related to the incident."

"What do you think caused those defensive wounds?" Mac asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the deep, red marks.

"It looks like something sharp had embedded itself into her skin. I looked into the tissue to get some samples, but found nothing." Hawkes gently released the hand on the table and raised a finger in the air teasingly. "But I DID find something that I'm sure you two are going to kill for." He turned his back to them to begin digging through his supplies at a nearby table.

With piqued interest, Stella stood up straighter and huddled in closer with Mac as Hawkes finished his rummaging and faced them. He revealed a plastic container with a piece of weathered paper inside of it.

"Ta- dah." Hawkes exclaimed with a stealthy monotone, as if he was afraid that his little 'magic trick' would disrupt the dead that were surrounding them. He handed the container over to Mac, who took it carefully, lifting it up to his eye- level and examining what was inside.

"It's a … piece of paper?" he tried, and she couldn't help giving him a look that said 'do we need to even _know_ that?'. The supervisor ignored her.

"Of course I had the chance to read it when I found it inside her breast pocket. I sent her clothes to Aiden already for processing, by the way." Hawkes waited for Mac to acknowledge this information before proceeding, "It's a ransom note. Asking for the Pink Spanish Heart in return of a little girl … called '_Little E'_."

"What is wrong with these perps? They keep on labeling everyone and everything as if they have THE poetic license," Stella sighed loudly, placing a hand on her hip. Mac agreed with a grunt, then handed her the plastic. She raised an eyebrow in question.

He tapped on the container that was splayed on her hand thoughtfully. "Why don't you process that and check on Danny too, see what he finds out about the blood?" her partner said, leaning away and rubbing his nose bridge. "I need to check on the official records of the Seferhs, see if there's something I missed about the Pink Spanish Heart. I'll also check on Aiden, see what she made out of that fingerprint."

Stella's grip on her hip bone tightened. For a concept that she couldn't fathom, she didn't want to be apart from Mac on this case. There was a persistent little voice inside of her that kept on telling her that she should work closely with him --- every waking second of the whole investigation. Not that it was THAT particular time of the month or anything, but she was feeling rather utilitarian towards him.

Needless to say, this new "checking up on the juniors" thing pissing the hell out of her. She felt that they could do much more than just "check up" on their very capable co- workers. Doing something more about it, like digging into the picture of that girl that they found inside Mrs. Seferhs' house.

"Fine," she answered, and irrationally walked out of their conference and out of the morgue. She didn't even think of opening her auditory sense to hear what Mac was telling her as she, once again, followed his orders to the very hilt.

* * *

Danny peered into the lens of the microscope and sighed deeply, "The blood from the bloody shovel matches our vic's." He pushed himself away from the florescent- lighted counters and rolled his chair over closer to Stella's, where he had set the shovel aside.

She removed her attention from the ransom note, - unintentionally studying the caking mixture of blood and flesh on the murder weapon, then the bloodshot red eyes that her friend was donning on. Not to mention the scratchy, throaty voice.

"You okay, Danny?" she said, removing the Night Vision Binoculars and shutting off the Alternative Light Source that she was using to scan the paper with. "I'm beginning to think that Mac's prognosis of you 'partying too hard' last night is right on the dot."

"You probably don't need to know about it, Stell," he coughed out, after clearing his throat. He dragged himself to where his cellular phone was stashed and punched in a number. After a few tries, someone finally picked up.

"Chad, where's, uhh, the results of my blood drops? Oh, okay. You know where to find me. No, I'm not going anywhere at all. Tell Flack he's an ass." He ended his call and removed his eyeglasses, tucking them inside his breast pocket.

Stella stood up and loomed over Danny. She placed a hand in between his shoulder blades. "Hey, Flack's an _ass_? Did you two have a too-good time?"

"Basically, NOT a too-good time," he replied, resting his head on a hand and coughing. "I think I pushed Hedonism way too much last night: _'Eat, drink, be merry for tomorrow we die'._ Only I embarrassed myself by hitting on a married woman – and almost throwing myself all over her."

"Oooh," Stella winced, gritting her teeth. "What? Did she press charges or anything?"

"No, of course not. I just … kind of threw up all over her."

"Yuck Danny." She couldn't help but punctuate that with a stolen giggle. She waited for him to react with one of his piercing stares, but he didn't, and she attributed that to his current state of inebriation. Collecting herself, she continued, "So if she didn't press charges, I'm guessing she got even."

Her friend soughed heavily. "Yeah. Women and their purses --- who knew what you females keep in them? Flack said that I was attacked by a 10- pound Louis Vuitton handbag." He tapped on his stomach tenderly, and even with such precision, Stella saw his face contort in pain. "I have bruises here that'll last for days. I wasted the night away puking out my intestines."

"So with the scratchy throat," she took notice, with an outpouring of affectation spilling from her vocal chords. She really felt for him - she knew what it was to be embarrassed about something stupid that you have done. "Flack's spreading the good news all over the lab now?"

He bent over excruciatingly, squeezing his abdomen in and circling an arm around the area. Before her, his bleached blonde hair stuck out in wrong places under the striking white lights, revealing roots that were ravaged with gel.

"I'm still trying to find ways to blackmail him and his ass."

She allowed herself to snort out a laugh. There was a passive familiarity about this encounter, about Danny's 'rookie' embarrassment (as Mac would have probably termed it if he was in her place right then and there), and about her being the advisor-slash-therapist. Somehow, it reminded her of her earlier days in the laboratory: Everything was new and foreign – every turn was adventurous, mistakes were tolerable-, and there was only one familiar face she felt comfortable to look at.

It brought her to her current irritability toward Mac, of all people, in this case. Now that she had thought it over while going through the damn ransom note, she supposed that maybe her degree of dependency on him in this case was due to his incessant silent plea of being depended upon --- he DID have that tendency, she firmly believed. He liked to take the reigns and drive to whichever direction, and oftentimes, without even consulting her. She felt that it was comparable to before – when her ideas were based on street smarts alone and not on empirical experience, and his were from the highest of high education. He outdebated her without a hitch; it was only a few years ago when she was able to kill him in their arguments.

For no apparent reason, or maybe she saw too much of her old self in Danny Messer at that moment, that she spilled out a portion of her thoughts in the open:

"Mac … is so overpowering sometimes." Stella twirled a lock of hair on her fingertip absentmindedly, directing her eyes down on the sprawled ransom note, as if she was somewhat afraid of getting Danny's reaction to this confession.

"What do you mean?" he deadpanned, face still partly stuck on the table, his eyes closed in reverie. She allowed herself to awkwardly smile.

"He just … has this tendency to think that he can control everything. He underestimates people, me." She scrunched her face up, turning slightly away from her friend. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'm just being a bitch about it."

"Well, Mac DOES do that. But I think he does it for a reason," Danny replied. "I know for a fact that he thinks highly of your opinions. He almost uses them like a basis, like textbook data."

"That's because I usually have the witty comebacks," she smirked, then turned serious. "The way he delegated assignments this morning didn't sit well with me. I've been following this man's orders for almost a decade now and I'm suddenly revolting … and God, it kills me that I'm not apt to obeying."

"You've been _obeying_ for almost a decade now, Stella. Someone has a turning point somewhere, a little tick sometimes. It's normal to be annoyed from time-to-time." He lifted his head from the table and stared at her straight in the eyes. "I know that YOU know that he cares a lot for you, probably more than what's intended for professionalism (but I mean that in a good way) … and whatever he does will always be conducive towards you. Probably more conducive for you THAN me and Aiden." He inquisitively scratched on his chin. "Hmm … that just opens another can of worms."

"Oh Messer, you're being a hung- over ass now." She smacked him on the bicep good- naturedly, a crystal smile tainting her lips. "You know that he cares for you a–"

"What did you get off of that blood, Danny?"

At the sound of his voice, they both snapped their heads in the door's direction so fast that Stella swore she heard her spinal column creak. Of course, as she expected, Mac stood there in all of his glory, with a bunch of printed paper on one hand and a cell phone on the other. His eyebrows were knitted so intricately it was as if they were in a tourniquet for the whole morning, and his stance was as impatient as a District Attorney wanting a closed investigation in less then a day.

As Danny scampered for his glasses and his findings, Stella rolled her eyes discretely.

_God, Mac could be so anal sometimes._

The aforementioned man strode over to Danny and listened intently to what he had about the blood. Specifics like diseases or ailments were also given, as with the necessary alleles they might need later on in case they needed to establish a match.

Seeing that they were now both busy in their discussion, Stella reluctantly returned to her ransom note. She was sure that 'Big Brother' was going to interrogate her next on her findings after poor Danny.

She was about to turn on the ALS when Aiden suddenly burst into the laboratory. Her hair was in disarray, as if she ran from one room to another to find where they were, her laboratory gown was almost bunching on her forearms, and she was obviously carrying a series of results.

Mac gazed at Aiden questioningly. "What's up?"

She flipped a thick layer of hair behind her and waved the paper before them. It was the partial fingerprint they found at the also anally- cleaned kitchen.

"We're not looking for someone in this case," she said breathlessly, flashing them all a gratuitous smile. "We're looking for _something_. This is a print of man's closest relation to the animal kingdom … and not just ANY close relation. These are the type we see commonly in zoos and are white in color, normally found in the jungles of the Amazon. Anyone still remembers the Lagothrix lagothrica?"

Stella quickly breathed out the answer to that one: "The Wooly Monkeys?"

Aiden made a ding-ding-ding sound. "Yup! That's what we're looking for now." She slid the piece of paper towards the trio, and Mac quickly took it before anyone else had their paws on it.

At that instance, Stella didn't mind anymore. For all that was going on in her mind was how this case was getting stranger and stranger. She was afraid that by the time they finished, they might be dealing with extraterrestrial poachers or worst: anal jewelry thieves.

She shivered in disgust.

**END of CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

**C/N:** No, I haven't abandoned this story. I got caught up with RL way too much that I forgot to write in this, and before I knew it, time was bonking me on the head. The Muse wasn't helping much either. Thanks to everyone who responded and who urged me to continue this, they really awakened the Muse out of her skivvies. Ah, the glory of Feedback.


	5. A Rain Dance

**CHAPTER FIVE: **A Rain Dance

January 2, 1993

Mac's hands were colder than winter's breath as he picked up the pay phone from its cradle and pushed coins into it. Huddling in closer until he couldn't feel the prick of the downsizing blizzard outside of the booth, he shut the flimsy door behind him and dialed a number from memory.

It felt like cruel eternity as he waited for someone to answer, as anxiety pricked his aorta, as the rings echoed repeatedly in his reddened left ear while his hands struggled to hold the phone in place. He closed his eyes to block out the thoughts and the nervousness itself, and just when he had finally felt calm enough to hold the phone with only one hand, someone picked up:

"Hello? Happy New Year!"

He almost dropped the receiver.

He tried to regain himself by clearing his throat. As a pregnant pause came up in the inactivity, the person's breathing on the other line quickened.

"Mac? I- is that you?"

He gritted his teeth. He thought that they were starting to chatter.

"Yes, hello Claire," he answered uncertainly, trying to gauge her tone from her previous question. He continued talking as he still tried to gauge, shaking his head at the striking difficulty this phone call was proving to be. "Happy New Year to you too. How are … how are you doing?"

"I'm okay as okay gets, Mac. I've been here in the office for almost everyday."

"Even during the holidays?"

"Yes, even during the holidays."

He was still gauging the approach that he needed to use on his wife (or on their current situation), and when that last word cruised out of the telephone, Guilt got up from his bed and started to do a rain dance. He was an ass of a husband – he should've been there for their first holidays as man and wife, he should've been there on evenings that they usually spend together in front of the fire, talking about anything that came into their minds.

But he wasn't. And that was all the difference he needed.

"Look Claire, I know that it has been sometime since we last saw each other –"

"- It has been two weeks, Mac. I've been counting."

That stung, a lot more than she probably intended it to, but it did for him. Much like most of the females he identified with, Claire was difficult; she was beyond beating around the bush.

The truth was that he counted too: he counted the seconds, the minutes, and the hours he stared listlessly at the telephone in Stella's den, trying to make up his mind on whether to call her or not. He never brought himself to do so, until today. Until today when he decided that he was not angry with Claire anymore. Disappointed, yes, somewhat disgusted, yes, but not angry. He could take that. He could be a man and take that.

For some unfathomable basis, he didn't call her on Stella's phone. He had to cash in a fifty dollar bill for coins and go to the pay phone right beside the apartment's stoop. That decision, no matter how weird it was to make, was probably paying off. Probably.

"Fine, two weeks," he parroted weakly, wanting nothing more but to get whatever he needed to say over with. "And I'm sorry for that. I really am. I hate what I did and I shouldn't have let those two weeks past without us talking … but let me tell you something you didn't give me the chance to: I don't want us to give up. I still want to make thi- this work." He took a deep breath, the air chilling the tubercles of lungs. "I still love you, Claire. Even if what you did really … hurts."

"You tell me you love me," his wife countered, her breath coming up short and ragged. "So you … you'll try and understand what I'm trying to tell you? What I want for both of us?"

"Not having kids? Is that WHAT you really want?" Mac bit his lip hard, then stopped when he tasted the faintest hint of blood. The warning beep about his last remaining seconds on the pay phone started, and he struggled to push a few more coins in it as he talked, "Isn't it we came to New York for _our_ family? What is this, a wild goose chase? Is this a game, Claire?"

"There you go again! You're not understanding me!"

"What do you –" Mac ran out of voice, and he fluctuated. He hated himself for that - for showing her his defenselessness - and to make up for it, he hit the clear glass of the booth's wall. The sound of flesh against solidity was a painful echo in the small entrapment. "Goddamn it! We're not going through this again, Claire! Just tell me the REAL reason why you don't want my kids!"

"I told you why! It's because I'm not ready!"

"You're lying TO ME!"

"I'm not, Mac, stop pushing me-"

"I want the fucking truth!"

"Don't use that tone, you have no right to use that on me when you're _just _calling from a phone in your whore's house –"

When those words came out of his wife's mouth, everything stopped. His mind, her breathing on the phone, the winter chill, the pain, the echoes. Everything came to a screeching halt.

Mac's eyes widened slowly, as each letter of the lexicon sunk into his system. First, there was disbelief, then there was panic, then anger --- the anger that he had worked so hard to get rid off for the past days. It was right behind him, urging him to open his mouth and start to REALLY talk.

"What did you say?" he said, clutching the phone so tight his knuckles were turning white, and pressing it against his ear so hard that his skin started flushing. He heard something behind him rattle, but he ignored it in his anger. The last thing he wanted to do was to tear himself off of this platform.

Claire hesitated, and when she came back on the line, her voice was meek and unsure. "No, Mac, I didn't mean it that way, I really didn't …"

"What DID you say, Claire? That Stella's my whore? Is that what you are implying?"

Suddenly, the tone from the other line switched, as if a personality change had occurred inside of his wife and she snapped. Her voice was icy - the bite of her words stinging - as the next sentences poured out of her:

"FINE! So that's what I meant!" she shouted, her voice vibrating from the receiver to the body of the phone. "Is that what you want to hear, Mac Taylor? Do you want to hear the damn truth?

"I'm sick and tired of her! Of your undying devotion to her! It's like you owe her your life, as if she _saved_ you and you have to offer her your damn life --- and dammitt, sometimes she's more important to YOU than I am!

"Yes, I AM implying that she's your whore. You expect me to believe that within the time you've spent at her apartment, wait – it's not really HER apartment because YOU pay for it -, that nothing's happened between you two? I _see_ what goes on when you look at her and when she looks at you, Mac! The woman adores you and it makes me sick to my stomach! She looks at you as if you're, you're goddamn Zeus! And you look at her as if she's a little nymph you have to rescue EVERY TIME! And if you tell me that 'nothing's going on', I will highly doubt that statement because …"

He wasn't able to reply for a long minute, even if Claire already faltered and even if it was obviously his cue to assure her that he was taking it all in, that he was still listening to her.

Every single idea that she had given him killed him slowly. It was as if he was standing in front of a firing squad, and when she started, the guns started shooting him too. And just when he thought he was about to die – just when he was sure that he was about to feel relief from all the inflicted pain -, she suddenly stopped, the guns stopped, and all he wanted was for her to continue so that he would die. So that he would have nothing to say to her anymore. So that she would cover all bases and he would only have to accept them all.

But now, he had to say something.

_Something. _

Mac released a breath that he had been intentionally holding during that long minute, and when he lost that breath, he lost almost all of his bearings.

"… Because why, Claire? Why would you doubt the truth, me?"

"Because," she choked out, "I know that you love her. It goes beyond explanation and my rationale, but you do love her. I know it, Mac. You talk about her as if she's God's gift … to you and you only. You talk about her as if you _own_ her."

He started stammering, and he didn't know if it was because what she was telling him was false or if she was getting too close to his buried truth. "N- no, Cl- Claire. Stella's just a frie- friend, she's not my- my whore, and I- I only love …"

"Don't lie to me, Mac, please. T- that's the reason why I can't have children with you. How … how can I have children with a man who's other half belongs to another? How can I expect him to be faithful to me _and_ our family in the long run?" Claire's voice started fading into softness, fragility. "How can I be sure that I'll still have you a few years from now? How can I be sure that … she wouldn't, she wouldn't …"

"S- she wouldn't what, Claire?"

"That she- she wouldn't own you, too. All of you." Then she added in a raw whisper, as if it was the worst secret of the universe, "I know that she almost does."

Shit.

Mac had nothing to say, nothing else to do, and nothing was registering to him. He stood there for sometime, trying to start disputing what Claire just opened out to him, but he was incapable of doing so.

So he did the next best logical thing: he placed the phone down.

"Mac?"

He turned around so fast he knocked the phone down from its cradle, and he had to struggle to get it back on again. After that, he faced probably the worst thing (and the last person) he wanted to encounter for that day:

Stella Bonasera stood in front of him, between the open doors of the booth, clad in her light blue parka and thick denims, with a ratty old backpack on one shoulder and a stack of medical books hanging from her hands. The tip of her nose was red from the cool breeze, and so were the rims of her eyes, trapping her green liquid diamonds within a fiery island.

It dawned to him - like a thunder bolt from the god of gods himself- that she was crying AND that she had heard everything he said. The noise he ignored a while ago was not just nothing, it was _her_ opening the phone booth's door.

"God, Stella, I'm sorry –" he told her at once, raising his arms to take her by the shoulders and convince her that whatever she heard was only from a rocky couple's perspective --- it was spontaneous, irrational, and stupid. She should never believe in it.

But as he drew closer, when his fingertips touched her clothed shoulders, she shook him off with a force that surprised him.

"No, Mac, I'm okay, I should be the one who's sorry because … I was going- going to call you for dinner and I got home e- early and …" A tear reappeared at the corner of her right eye, sinking like a drop of crystallized snowflake onto the corner of her mouth. She abruptly bent her head down and wiped it. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have …" Her voice grew thick, and it was the sound of rushing molasses in his ears. He started to get alarmed.

"Stella please, listen to me," he urged, moving forward to hold her in between his grasp, but she pulled back once again. In her action's wake, the heavy books that she was carrying dropped on a pile of wet snow in front of them. Neither made a move to pick them up.

He glanced at the books and saw that the pasty snow was seeping into the plastic covers and was about to ruin the pages, so he dropped down on his knees and began to gather them in his arms. While doing this, he opened his mouth to speak to her. But in his peripheral vision, Stella's legs trudged towards the opposite direction, and then she began to run.

Mac raised his head up in shock. He shouted her name, asking for her to wait, to stop, to listen --- but she didn't.

He stood up, with the damp and heavy volumes in his arms, and helplessly watched as Stella's figure disappeared beneath the shadows of the street lights.

* * *

He went straight to Central Park after placing the medical books safely inside Stella's apartment to dry. He didn't understand why, but he also didn't allow himself to second guess. He only followed his instincts to the very end and walked all the way to Central Park. He made sure that his thoughts were following his long stroll, that they were there to keep him company, and to criticize or praise him whenever he needed them to.

Reaching the west end of the park, he knew (theoretically) that if Stella ran all the way from her apartment to the park, she wouldn't stray far. She would find the nearest snow- covered benches, swat the ice off, and sit on it to think. He knew for a fact that she loved thinking – she did it quite often, actually. It always gave him the impression that she was alone, or left alone, most of her life. Maybe she didn't trust any of her friends with her thoughts. Maybe she simply just had enough time to sit down and contemplate on whatever she wanted to.

As for him, he never had the time to stop and solely think. He always had something up his sleeve. Sure, he would think when he was working, or when he was filing papers or going on a long drive from the Bronx to Queens to arrest a suspect, but never like what Stella did. He never had the chance to just be by himself and think, to stay put for thirty minutes or an hour, and to reflect on what was going on in his life. Whenever he and Claire fought, he went to Stella. Whenever he was alone or when Claire was out with her friends, he still went to her. Whenever he needed someone to talk to during his graveyard shifts, he called Stella up. And whenever he needed to think, he would rather go to her apartment and talk his thoughts out with her.

Remembering Claire's words in his heads, he scrunched his face up.

Maybe she was right: fine, so he DID adore the woman and he did love her. But not in that sense. It was in a different level. His heart belonged only to his wife, but Stella … it was as if she was meant to be there in his life. It was as if as soon as she entered his realm, she fit … and that was all he needed to know back then. He never thought that he would have to define what he had for her in the long run.

Or maybe the problem was that he never wanted to define what he had for Stella, period.

The Park was a blanket of smooth whiteness and static tranquility as he stepped into the clearing, shuffled snow from his boots, and raised his head to look out for a fluff of curly hair. As he had expected, she didn't wander far away: She was seated on the closest bench from his stand point, the hood of her parka dangling at her back from her lapels, her shoulders hunched, and her whole upper body weight supported by skinny arms that were resting on her knees. Her eyes were still teary, her mouth twisted in a dire line, and her nose and cheeks red from both the cold and her emotions.

Mac immediately felt an awful panging in his heart upon the sight of her so defeated, so alone. If it would make Stella feel better, he would certainly try and define what he had for her or what they had together. Surely it would also make him feel somewhat better.

He drew closer to her, gauging - yet again - her reaction to his presence for what seemed like the nth time for that day. She didn't seem to either mind or be frantic about it, - or maybe she was simply ignoring his presence. Nevertheless, he decided to be bold.

Brushing off snow from the space beside her, he sat down and mimicked her pose.

"When you were four," he started spontaneously, and Stella cocked her head towards him to indicate that she was listening, "you were sick and tired of staying inside the orphanage. There was this little girl who kept bullying you to give her your erasers, and you sat idly as she stole all of your erasers – every one of them, everyday. You hated the nuns because they made you brush your teeth every after the five meals you take in a day. You hated it that your friends had some stories to share about their parents and what their lives were before the orphanage, and you didn't.

"Then on a rainy evening in November, September, I don't know, the month escapes me --- you sprang out of your window and tried to run away. Thank God the gardener caught you before you had pneumonia."

Stella chuckled slightly at the memory, and he shared that little laugh with her. Afterwards, he continued.

"Before you were eighteen - a few months before you hit the mark -, your current boyfriend, your first love, broke your heart over the bullying little girl that you hated so darn bad you believed it was pre- natal. Rather than crying alone in your room, rather than allowing your friends to console you, you told the nuns that you're independent enough to find a good scholarship and go to college. They let you out of the orphanage before you were even supposed to get out. You turned your back on your former home and never revisited.

"During your first year of college, you did your boyfriend's thesis proposal and got caught by your favorite professor. You couldn't take the disappointment in your professor's eyes when he was reprimanding you, so you quit college, broke up with your then- boyfriend, and vowed never to return to that University again.

"On the day we met - two years ago - you had nothing with you because your boyfriend had everything you ever owned. You told me that he had a _little_ arsonist streak in him, but we both know that that is not true. You just didn't want to go back to his apartment, to face him, and deal with the aftermath. You opted to accept a complete stranger's proposal of a new life than turning around and trying to amend what you already have. You'd rather lose everything you own than face what you set behind you."

"Is this going somewhere, Mac?" Stella said, blinking away incoming tears and sniffling back those that dared to appear. She shook her head and intertwined her cold fingers in front of her. "B- because if you have a point, I'm waiting for you to make it."

"Yes, I do have a point," he answered, running his hand across his chin. He gritted his teeth until he heard the sounds of sliding molars in his head, and then stopped when he couldn't take it anymore.

"Is this what you do, Stella? All your life, is this what you're good at doing?"

For the first time that day, she gazed at him. Her eyes betrayed her confusion, but he allowed her to fool him, or them, for the meantime.

"What do you mean? What do I do?" she asked, a tear emanating at the corner of her eye and taking that familiar pattern down her face.

Mac reached over and wiped the tear away with his thumb, then he took her frozen hands in his warmer ones.

"Do you always have to run away?"

In alarm, Stella tried to pull her hands back, but he held them firmly in place. She darted her eyes from his, but he redirected them back to his stare by squeezing her wrists gently.

He smiled at her, ironically. "See what I mean?"

She blinked slowly, understanding dawning in her shiny green irises, and she ultimately gave up trying to escape him.

"You know that I can't ever run away from you, Mac," she sighed, wallowing in her loss.

He waited for her to elaborate on that, but she didn't.

"C'mon," he urged, standing up and releasing her from his constraints. Mac opened his arms out to her. "Let's go back to your apartment and talk, okay? Will that make you feel better? Will that make you stay put?"

Stella licked her lips in contemplation, then immediately grinned - that marvelously conjured grin of hers. And despite the tiredness in her eyes and her lanky demeanor, she did step into his arms and allowed him to hold her --- just like the way she did for him whenever he needed someone real, whenever he needed a friend after his fights with Claire.

And just like he always felt her do during those times, he kept her in his embrace all the way home, until they were both safe from the cold outside.

**END of CHAPTER FIVE**


	6. Little E

**CHAPTER SIX: **Little E

May 16, 2005

It was funny how most of the littlest things could be vivid in a woman's memory bank, and then how the most important sequences of her life could emit nothing but emotions –-- nothing concrete, only overwhelming feelings and grief.

There was that song in the bus towards nowhere, and it was always as crystal as it was years ago when Stella first heard it gurgling through a speaker's lousy volume. It was her favorite, Joni Mitchell's _Case Of You_. There was the pencil she used to write that deranged letter - a cheap, yellow one she picked up while working in the library of her former university. And of course, the necklace … she probably would never forget about it as long as she lived. She loved it the first time she saw it, despite her nagging ignorance at what the golden words had meant. She wore it as if it could somehow sum up who she was, as if it could dictate what her destiny was: where she came from and where she should go.

Then, at nights when it would bother her, she would try to remember the mornings she woke up and realized that she was all alone in a foreign city. There were the new sights and unfamiliar, frightening sounds. But she never could remember. All she could grasp was the feeling of need, the feeling of wanting to go back home where she belonged, but then again, she never did really belong anywhere.

And the most important memory she tried to resurface probably was of the pain and the passive realization that she could never, ever go through her life with what happened to her. She only could remember taking off her necklace, giving it away, but never what the receiver looked like --- never her laughs, her cries, her dry tears. Only the death of her own soul, the optimistic thoughts that what destiny brought her were for the better, always for the better.

Stella stared at the photograph of the little girl they found in Mrs. Seferhs' house, and as much as she wanted to touch the photograph - to feel the rough edges and the wear and tear of time on it -, she was held back by the plastic barrier, one that rudely cited it as 'evidence'.

There was no doubt in her mind that this girl was the _Little E_ the ransom note had pertained to. It was odd that there was absolutely no trace of her existence – no birth records, even baptismal records -, just a bunch of code names that they couldn't even find anyone to translate. It may have been an underground adoption of Mrs. Seferhs from her living relatives, or from a friend, but still … wasn't it strange that someone THIS rich and prominent wouldn't even bother to let the world know that she took under her golden wings an unfortunate being?

Stella knew that if she had THE money and fame, she'd do exactly just that. This was New York, anyway.

The fact that Mrs. Seferhs had few living relatives didn't help further their investigation. This morning, she wanted to push for the 'Little E' lead, but Mac wanted for them to pursue a more concrete evidence instead: the darn monkey print.

While Danny (and Chad, in his seemingly helpful- unhelpful way) tried to make sure that the blood drops leading towards the playground was not a match to Mrs. Seferhs', and while Mac and Aiden grossed over which zoo was better than the other for the monkey print like hyped-up children, she decided to take a break. That was, a break inside the evidence room, just to please the deafening thoughts inside of her head. There was a calling for her to sit down and reassess all her growing turmoil.

Stella sighed deeply, the sound echoing like a thousand petulant drums inside the dimly lit room. She usually was a team player; she loved her work environment and had always told herself how she easily fit in – especially when she had practically spent most of her life searching for a milieu to sink herself in without being thrown out. This was, as far as she was concerned, the only place where she could establish herself without ruining her credibility.

But since the start of the case, her feelings had been hopeless. First, it was that peculiar house Mrs. Seferhs had retired in, then the nature of her death (when more violent crimes hadn't fazed her before). Mac and his imposing orders hadn't helped either, and so was this picture that she desperately wanted to touch, to feel, to run her fingers on.

Suddenly, a flash of irrationality burned her.

She studied the sealed plastic edges with renewed fervor. She wasn't Stella Bonasera, Crime Scene Investigator anymore. She wasn't this woman who dedicated her life to meaningless hours of work and to a man who barely knew how to deal with her. She wasn't this woman who memorized every law of the United States of America and kept a copy of it under her pillow at nights, just to make sure she would remember where the lines shouldn't be crossed. She wasn't this woman he made anymore, she could breathe.

She was now the anonymous girl who was still called 'girl' despite being over- twenty, the girl who could starve three days straight and then eat as if calories were nonexistent. She was the girl who danced to disco, who loved the evenings, who never cared about her appearance. She was the she before _he_ came along.

With shaking hands, she unsealed the plastic bag and reached in …

"Stella?"

The voice shattered the whole revered silence, making her skin jump out of her system. Sealing the plastic bag as quickly as possible, she faced the direction of the crime lab's entrance. As she did, intimidating white lights flooded the whole room.

"Aiden," she gasped out, barely able to collect her fast heartbeat. She blinked profusely as the lights momentarily blinded her, baring white spots in her vision. Her co-worker regarded her with worry, which she vehemently ignored.

"What brings you here? Did you, um, find the zoo where the monkey came from?"

"Uh, yeah," Aiden replied, brushing away her bangs from her eyes. "There were new shipments of Wooly Monkeys to the Central Park Zoo just a week ago. They reported of a break- in four days ago, and local NYPD have looked into the case. Three Wooly Monkeys were stolen."

She laughed, "As if this case isn't getting as bizarre as THAT. Don and I are going to look into the case right now … as for you," she stopped, clicking her tongue and pointing a folder in her direction. "Mac wants you in District Attorney Mike Keith's office pronto. There was a memo a while ago and it seems … urgent."

She nodded awkwardly and stood up, stumbling on her steps as she tucked the picture inside the case file's folder. She left it on the table, and three steps away, she decided to bring it (since it was what the new District Attorney probably wanted to talk about). Clutching it close to her, she passed Aiden with a shiver escaping her.

"Hey, wait," her friend called out, catching her by the shoulder.

Stella faced her and inhaled deeply, stubbornly.

"I," Aiden started, frowned, and then tried to revive herself with a lopsided smile. She dropped her hand back to her side. "Don't worry, okay? I won't tell Mac about what I saw. I won't tell anyone."

It barely made her feel better, but the consideration did give her some assurance.

Before she knew it, Irrationality fled her small world, making gravity pull her back down to earth. Her two feet planted firmly on the ground, and with just that, she was Stella Bonasera again. Her name was returned and tattooed on her olive skin.

"Thanks, I really appreciate that." She returned Aiden's smile and rushed out of the room.

* * *

Stella always thought that the latest addition to the roster of DAs, Mike Keith, was too devastatingly handsome to be an investigator's whistleblower. For years, the CSIs had been living on the policy that the higher ups (including very well the DAs) were their worst enemy – it wasn't the suspects or the mind boggling crimes, but the Big Brothers.

Together with Mac, she entered the young man's newly painted room, her nose recoiling at the smell of solvent in the air. She glanced at her partner, trying to catch his eyes and motion at the new facilities, but she saw that he was busy trying not to gag.

Keith raised his eyes from his paperwork, and for a moment, Stella felt straddled by the dizzying blue sapphires that seemed to pierce her whole body in a tight embrace. He flashed them his trademark impish grin (that had infamously sent most of the female CSIs swooning), brushing away strands of blonde hair from his porcelain face. He debonairly motioned for them to sit on the new chairs in front of his also new Oak desk.

They sat down primly, and Stella reminded herself why Keith wasn't meant to be a DA --- it was impossible to hate him. He was bound to break the age old tradition of bitterness between the two departments.

A few steps away from her, Mac cleared his throat. She looked at him questioningly, only to blush later on when she realized that he was silently reprimanding her for gaping at the DA.

She sank into her chair and hugged the case file close to her chest. She had no intention of looking at her partner, or else she would disintegrate into a tiny little pieces. Not that she had a crush on Keith - like most of the women had -, but he was just too beautiful to not look at. He was the perfect epitome of an eye candy: deliciously tempting.

At her peripheral vision, she could see Mac regarding Keith with annoyance. His eyes were figurative daggers stabbing the guy over and over again.

_Well,_ Stella thought wildly_, at least the men wouldn't have any problems when it comes to hating the DA._

"Detective Bonasera," Keith said, interrupting her thoughts, his voice low and throaty. It was as if he was talking to her in the bedroom and not in a public government office.

Stella blinked hard to stop naughty thoughts from ripping her head apart.

He nodded in her direction, and then turned towards Mac, "Detective Taylor; good afternoon. I won't beat around the bush, I'm sure your team is busy with the Seferhs case."

"Yes, sir," Mac acknowledged, and Stella wondered if she actually heard the dripping hint of disdain in his last delivered word. She shrugged - maybe it was all in her imagination.

"We reviewed what you have presented us recently, and we decided to look into a very prominent matter in the whole case. The Pink Spanish Heart Diamond, through some private records we were able to obtain from Mrs. Seferhs' bank, wasn't liquidated, like most of her possessions."

"Which means that the Pink Spanish Heart could now be in the hands of the perps," she concluded, more to herself than to the group. Keith nodded again, his thick eyelashes batting unintentionally in her direction.

"But that is not the reason why I called you in. I'm sure you could figure that out on your own. There is one important information that we found included in the bank statements for the Pink Spanish Heart. It appears that Mrs. Seferhs had a heiress to the Diamond."

Mac's eyebrows furrowed and he leaned forward. "Mrs. Seferhs had a daughter?"

"No, not like that," Keith sighed. He opened a folder in front of him, which Stella didn't notice beforehand. The DA scanned the first page and pointed at a handwritten portion as his reference. "She cared for the little girl AFTER she bought the diamond. We believe that she obtained the girl solely for that reason, and had deliberately hidden her from public records to secure the diamond in the Seferhs' possession. And to protect her 'family' from schemes. The girl is not named in these records, not even in Mrs. Seferhs last will and testament. She is only referred to as _Little E. Seferhs_. Not legally a Seferhs, but your victim thinks so in her own right." He flashed a dazzling, too- white and pasty grin, "Rich people - they think they can do almost anything they desire," he commented disapprovingly, and with a tiny smidgeon of amusement.

"It looks like the perps are holding 'Little E' captive, then." Mac drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair thoughtfully. "If that is so, why murder Mrs. Seferhs? Where does murdering Mrs. Seferhs fit in all of this?"

"That's your job now, Detectives," Keith expressed, then raised a perfectly- structured finger in the air, grinning. "The Diamond is very well known everywhere – in jewelers and banks, anything of the like. If someone cashed in the stone sometime in the last three days, surely, the original bank would be alerted – especially if the person isn't a Seferhs. So far, there had been no alarm. We're guessing that the Diamond is still inside Mrs. Seferhs last land possession in the United States."

Stella grimaced. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle Mrs. Seferhs created were now being pulled together to create a flamboyant picture, but gaps were still present. There were still missing pieces that they had to dig for, and the most essential piece was an improbable reality. Who in their right minds would keep a Diamond THAT precious and THAT huge in one's house? In one's _abandoned _house?

"Detective Bonasera? Do you have anything prominent in your mind?"

Snapping out of her trance, she trailed her eyes on Keith's questioning demeanor, then on Mac's encouraging façade.

"Yes, I do," she voiced out, her tone weak. She cleared her throat and continued with more force, "Isn't there a possibility that the Diamond is in the perps' hands by now? Shouldn't we be engaging efforts in locating the little girl first?"

"She has a point," Mac said, and this surprised Stella. She deathly wanted to look at her partner and see the validation on his face, but Keith answered them both immediately.

"The Diamond will answer our questions about the little girl. Since we virtually have nothing on this 'Little E", I suggest that you both go to Mrs. Seferhs' residence and start tearing it apart. I've assigned Detective Flack to go with you, and had asked Detective Maka to accompany Burn to look for our Wooly Monkey." The DA gave them a little smile, and pushed the folder on his desk in Mac's direction. Mac accepted it cautiously, as if it was a time bomb that could explode any second.

When the file was secured under Mac's arm, they both stood up and started to walk out of the room. Before they could exit, Keith reminded them to 'be careful'.

Stella didn't know what that implied, but her gut instinct was warning her to take that to heart.

* * *

"You know what I hate?"

Stella blew a wayward strand of curly hair from her face. She adjusted her latex gloves and snapped them for emphasis. It was getting unusually hot inside the damn house.

Beside her, Mac smoothened his hands on the floorboards of one of the house's many bedrooms. While she was busying herself with the walls, pushing and prodding for anything that might be a secret compartment or a hidden entrance to another room, Mac had gotten down on his palms and knees to pat the wooden boards. He had remained suspiciously silent as they ravaged the first floor, with Flack cracking jokes as their background 'music'. The three of them had diligently finished the whole floor, and as they were about to start on the second story, Flack felt hunger pains.

The first two rooms were spent in uncomfortable silence, and when she heard the first strings of Mac's voice, she couldn't help her heart jumping in relief.

She coughed before speaking, "Other than disorganization, impatience, and psychedelic ties, what else do you hate, Mr. Taylor?"

He slid a little further towards the end of the room as he continued to dig his fingers in between the floorboards. His eyes were glued to his task, but his mind was obviously rationalizing something else: "I hate imposing District Attorneys that think they know everything we should do in an investigation. I am especially not fond of the way they retract my orders and change it to their own."

Stella kept a smile to herself. Power- hungry Mac was always at its best when his pride was threatened.

"Sorry, I forgot to add 'very handsome District Attorneys' to your hate list." She knocked on a particular soft spot on the wall, but only received a thud as a response. She continued to knock on another corner - with no success. "I don't like what they are prioritizing either Mac, but what can we do? They find the Diamond more important than a human being's life."

He stopped for a second, sitting his behind on his soles. He resignedly placed his hands on his lap. Seeing that he froze his job, Stella did too herself and mimicked his pose - though she crossed her arms instead. Their eyes met.

"Are you worried about the kid, too?" Mac piped up, in such a vulnerable way that it frightened her. It was as if they were transported back in time – to a time of less complication and a lot more friendship – and here they were again, standing face-to-face in almost nothing else but just that: vulnerability.

Those scenarios were the turning points in her life, she had to admit, but most of them she wanted to run away from. However, she found herself resigning in it as if it was the norm of her whole debacle. A few years younger, she would've turned her back at Mac and his crazy ideas. A few years older, and she's still facing him despite everything that they've gone through.

It was more of a surprise than a revelation, actually. In her life, there were no revelations. Only surprises, and lots of them.

"Yes, I am," Stella answered, her voice soft. "I don't like the way they're handling the case. I want more insight on the little girl, and I've been fighting for it since this morning."

"Ah," Mac said, "no wonder you were sulking a while ago."

"I _don't_ sulk."

"Yes, you do." He smirked and shook his head. "Believe me in this, but I firmly thought the Wooly Monkey lead would bring us to the girl. That's the only reason why I pursued it before anything else."

"I believe you, Mac." She released her arms and reached behind to touch her ankles, and to also stretch her aching back. She always believed in him like she believed in the essential truth of the Ten Commandments, but of course, she left that out.

"I'm not myself lately," she concluded, and thought that it was nice to hear that out loud.

"Is it that time of the month?" he inquired, more concerned than sarcastic. This question made her smile, and not embarrassed, she noted.

"No, it isn't." She sighed and returned to her previous search, and he did the same. With her back to him, she continued to talk, finding herself liking the familiarity of their exchange. "Something about this case bothers me, I can't put my finger on it and I'm sure you couldn't too, but it's there and it's nudging me …" she trailed off as she moved her hands down to the bottom part, where the wall met the floor. As she did so, something shiny caught her eye.

Her nerves bristled with excitement. In her head, she kept telling herself that this was probably it. This was what they were looking for.

Mac ignored her silence and took it as sign of her busyness, but despite her wanting to warn him about her find, she was unable to. She kept telling herself that once they turn over this oh-so-important Diamond, they could pursue the child and save her from those kidnappers …

She was able to get a hold of the golden chain, and in her thrill, she momentarily forgot the reality of the Diamond's weight and size. With a sweeping motion, she pulled it out of the crack and raised it to her eye level, revealing it to herself.

She was wrong.

It wasn't the Diamond at all … it was something else.

Stella felt her systems going haywire and her eyesight blacking out. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage with a force that almost threatened to break the bones, and her stomach was pushing against the esophagus, compelling her to almost throw up.

In her head, the words kept repeating like a broken record from another dimension:

_No, God no, this is not happening. This couldn't be happening. _

Her fingers trembled as she lifted the necklace up, closer to her nose, and with a desperate gasp, she realized that it WAS happening. It was fucking happening and it was reality and she couldn't, couldn't run away anymore.

The necklace was _hers_, the Greek necklace that Mac had given her as a present years ago.

Her eyes madly scanned the jewelry, while her brain tried to take it all in: the dried blood on the once- shiny pendant, the rusting chain, the memories, the little girl …

A hand found her mouth. She clamped down on her cheeks hard as she suppressed a scream, but still, it found its way out of her barrier, and with that cry, her other hand let the necklace fall back to gravity.

The last thing she heard before the world disappeared was Mac rushing towards her in panic, and the necklace's metallic thump on the wooden floor.

* * *

It was funny what a woman's memory bank could store – or could not store, to be more precise.

She could remember the frantic orders he made as she blackened out, the feel of his body pressed tightly against hers as he tried to revive her, but not the way he looked as he showed her care that she knew was there but he never gotten around to give. She could vividly remember coming around outside of the house, with only his face in front of her and then, the tears came – too fast and too overwhelming. He had wanted to know what was wrong with her, and she understood him, but she couldn't remember how he had asked. She didn't remember him leaving her, but she did remember talking to Flack and asking him to collect that piece of evidence which she knew that Mac missed, despite her previous disarray. She couldn't remember how she - with that damn necklace in an evidence bag - was able to drive (let alone leave the crime scene without crossing Mac's path) and rush inside the lab, but when she faced Danny that afternoon, she vowed to remember the incoming moments from then on.

After matching the week- old blood on the necklace with the blood drops that led from the crime scene to the playground, Stella was on the verge of another breakdown. She didn't know what was right or wrong anymore, what was irrational or rational, what she should do from what she shouldn't. But as Danny read her all the information he got from the match, she tried to remain as still as possible. She contained all her emotions in a metallic box and locked it with her heart, hoping to keep them there for the meantime.

"Stella?" her colleague's voice shattered her concentration, and all her notions fell to her feet like shards of broken glass.

She gritted her teeth and swallowed a gurgle of desperation that fought to materialize. She swallowed hard, twice, "Danny, are you sure of this, information?"

"Yeah," he said, his Brooklyn accent becoming more prominent whenever he was sure of himself. "You waited two hours for it, so I've made sure that they really, really match. Where the hell is Mac anyway? He should hear –"

"Danny," she cut him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. The last thing _she_ wanted to know was Mac's whereabouts. He should be the last thing she should be concerned with right now.

"I … I have a favor to ask you. I'm not sure if you'll comply and I'm not sure if I should even …" she halted; she couldn't go on. The metallic box was overflowing and she had to let a few tears out.

She inhaled deeply, painfully, and wiped the droplets away with her jacket's lapel. Danny watched her, then he placed a hand over hers and squeezed it.

"What is it, Stella?" he gently prodded, his voice soothing. "If you want anyone to break a few handbook rules, you know you found your man."

"I'm … I'm not even sure if this is right or …"

"I'm telling you, it's okay. Anything," he urged. His hold on her hand grew tighter, warmer.

Stella looked down on her feet. She didn't want to see his face, his reaction to what she wanted him to do.

"I need you to take a DNA paternity test … for the blood on the necklace …"

"Okay," Danny complied, removing his glasses. "Who am I going to match it with?"

She finally lifted her head and stared at him straight in his blue eyes. "With mine."

She did remember her friend's reaction. As much as he tried to hide the shock from his face, it showed in his eyes – shining like crystallized sin in a pool of angels. But he did as she had asked of him, and she waited another two hours for the results. She was relieved that Mac was in a conference with DA Keith and Flack, reporting about her 'panic attack', and when Aiden returned with Detective Maka about the results of their investigation, she was assured that Mac was beyond busy. He wouldn't be looking for her.

Not yet, that was.

Her back was stiff and her foot was asleep, but when Danny came out of the lab to give her the results, she jumped up as if it didn't matter at all. She hobbled to meet him halfway, and when they faced each other, Danny was unreadable. His eyebrows were knotted, his lips met in a thin line, and his irises were hollow.

"Stell," he cracked, "I don't … I double checked just to make sure …"

"What does it say?" she inquired, holding her breath.

His jaw tensed, and held the results up for her to see.

"You're the mother."

Hearing that, Stella closed her eyes and calmed herself. She wanted to remember those words forever - not because it made her jubilant, but because it signified that her past had come to haunt her once again. The past that she had tried to elude by running away finally kept up with her.

She didn't need to hear the words, she didn't really need to, just like she didn't need the DNA test. Ten years ago she wouldn't have cared – she would've taken it for what it was and then walk away. But right now, her older self was searching for something more concrete – and the concrete was staring at her in the face, about to bite and poison her with its vicious venom, and for the love of God, she just didn't know what to do.

Taking the results from Danny's hands, she drew forward and enclosed her friend in an embrace. He accepted it, channeling her courage to trample down his confusion. Stella understood his situation --- he wasn't going to ask how it happened and how she came about it this way. He was allowing her to make the decisions in this. She could tell him when she was ready to do so.

Stella pressed her lips on his cheek and then tiredly whispered in his ear, "Don't tell Mac."

She released him and folded the paper carefully. She tucked it under her jacket and walked away. She wanted frantically to run, but she knew that this time, she couldn't anymore.

**END of CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

**C/N: **Thanks to all those who took time to comment and read this story, I promise that it's about to get better and better. And a very special thank you to whoever nominated this story for the _CSI Fanfic Awards_. Please do vote for _Intro Retrospection_ at LiveJournal, in the community _csifanficawards _(I'm not sure when voting starts, but I hope you'll support this story when it does).


	7. His Soul Belonged

**A/N: **I tried my best to fit it into the PG- 13 rating. I really, really did. I think I was successful on some levels, but I'll hang this warning in the air just to be sure.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: **His Soul Belonged

January 2, 1993

He sat down on her couch and patted the space beside him. The wooly fibers felt cool beneath his touch, and after he showed her his invitation, he couldn't help huddling in his jacket. It was getting colder now; as they entered the apartment, Winter constructed a catastrophic blizzard outside.

Stella stood before him, also snuggling into her thinner layers of jackets. The light behind her figure created a yellow outline that surrounded her entirety, a silhouette so fine that tiny flying optic fibers were visible to his naked eye. Mac settled in the darkness her shadow created over his frame, but before he could revel, she had accepted his invitation and had sat beside him. The luminosity struck his eyes, and he turned away, only to find himself face-to-face with her.

Their faces were so close to each other that he could almost feel the tip of her nose against his own, and the warmth of her breath against his lips.

_Dear God, she is beautiful_, he thought. Her eyes were wide and tragic, red and a little bit swollen, as if she had just met her end and then had resurrected before anyone could miss her. Her skin was fragrant – the wet snow, the tinge of drying sweat, the baby cologne she put on hours ago. Her lips trembled against his breathing, her cheeks turned into a darker shade of pink, and her disarrayed hair kept falling on her face. She brushed them away, and as she did, the humble sparkle of her Greek necklace bared itself to him.

He wondered, deep in his million and one thoughts, how could anyone blame him for worshipping this woman? She was real, every second he spent in her company felt like a roller coaster of wit and emotions --- hell, he was never bored in her presence. She could laugh hard over his corny jokes, and then the next second, cry with him over a dumb old movie.

Mac drew forward and cupped her cheek tenderly, as if she was made of the finest china in the world. He expected her to jolt away, but to his pleasant surprise, she tilted her head towards his touch.

"Stella, what you heard – when I was speaking to Claire, you know you shouldn't believe in a word that she said. Or in whatever I said. This is a couple that's … on the rocks. We're trying to resolve things, but at the same time we're grasping at things that we think would … help us fix conflicts. Claire … happened to find you and she …"

"She never liked me, Mac," Stella finished for him, putting her hand over his and removing it from her face. She gazed down at their intertwined fingers on her lap. "Why do you think I always manage to squeeze out of affairs that involve you, her, and me? I wasn't comfortable in her presence – and I still am not."

He drew into his lungs a chilly gust of wind. He knew of the hidden bitterness Claire harbored towards Stella – he really did, inwardly, but he never wanted to acknowledge it. Not because he was afraid that acknowledging would make it real, but because he knew that if it was out in the open, he would have to make the decision about leaving Stella. And that was not an option. He never thought it was … until now.

"I know, I'm sorry if I ever forced you to mingle with her. But you have to understand that it was important for me to have the two most important women in my life to be friends."

"I know that."

"Yes, and you have to also know that what she said --- you're, you're not my," Mac stalled, hating the word and hating himself for being in the position to clear it up for her, "you're not my whore, Stella. Of course you're not, it's just Claire's state of mind. She's confused and I am too, and I tried to get the best out of it –"

"Will you return to her?"

Mac paused and rethought that one before he was able to answer. "Yes, I want to return to her. I still love her."

"And when you do, will you leave me?"

Damn it.

The way she said it, as if her whole life depended on him and as if he was her only savior, _how_ could he ever leave her? This was a woman that he made, loved, and took care of. He had given her everything he could for a better life, and in return, she had given him so much more. She had given him _everything_ that Claire couldn't give him. The truth for Mac was that he probably depended on Stella as much as she depended on him. If not, more.

This was his life already – two responsibilities, two destinations, two women. He didn't know what to do about Claire, and he didn't know what he had with Stella yet. But he discerned, somehow, that he should try and define what they had together --- if he ever wanted to see both of them again.

He gripped her hand. Hard. "You know I could never do that," he replied sincerely.

Stella allowed a little smile to flutter through her face.

"You're my best friend, Stella," he attempted, then found that it couldn't fit. "I, you mean to me a lot and you … if I lose you, I'll have to find you. Over and over again."

"What if you did lose me? What _I_ left you?"

The scenario – the mere suggestion of it - devastated him immediately. It felt as if someone stuck his hand into his chest cavity, and started to slowly pull his heart out. The pain grew tenfold with each crushing, pulling, second.

Mac resisted the strong urge to flinch. "Why, will you do that to me?" he had to ask - he just HAD to ask.

Stella blinked hard. "Of course not, Mac."

He sighed in relief, then collected himself. "If I lose you, if you left me … you know I'll always try to find you –"

"Mac," she whispered, and their eyes met.

Gravity met gravity, and he was compelled to stare deep into her green irises, to read her soul, to read her. It was as if he was staring into the abyss of who she was, as if she was showing him her whole self without anymore barriers.

It frightened him, but at the same time, he felt exhilarated. Honored.

A tear slid down her cheek. It appeared tired, effortful, as it landed on her chin.

Stella gasped, "You – you love me, don't you?"

Mac held their gazes for another minute, before jumping out of the couch and walking a few centimeters away from her. He turned his back to her and placed a hand on his chin, trying to think everything out.

Still on the couch, he heard her talk, "It's impossible, I know that, and I hardly believe it myself, but Mac, what other explanation can we give? How can we name _this_? I don't think you DO love me in that sense, it is damn farfetched that you love two women …"

Maybe she talked a little more, maybe she stopped, he didn't know. He was already lost: He didn't know which to believe, which was real, which wasn't. Stella's knowledge about his love for her didn't shock him – it was THE truth. He did love them both. But he didn't quite understand how or why that was possible.

Abruptly, she broke the stellar situation. As she spoke, her voice transformed from being too shaky to being too collected – too much that it sounded affected.

"Mac, I'm going to bed. I'm tired and I'm sure you are too, maybe we can talk about this tomorrow." He heard her stand up, then her footsteps fell on the cemented floors like giant anvils echoing in his head.

He turned around and found himself trying, all over again.

"Yes, I do love you," he said.

Stella stopped. From his vantage point of view, he could see from her back how she became stiff, as his voice wafted in the whole apartment.

He took a step forward. "I don't know if this will sum this up -"

"Mac, I told you, that **is** impossible."

"Let me finish, Stella," he sternly pointed out, but when he spoke again, his voice was soft. Almost on the verge of surrendering.

"It IS possible for me to love both of you at the same time." Another step towards her direction was made. "My heart belongs to Claire, there's no question about that –"

Stella's shoulders slumped, and within that interval, he found himself only a few inches away from her. He was so close, he could hold her waist and crush her back to his front …

"But my soul belongs to _you_, Stella," he murmured against her hair, closing his eyes. "If I lose you, my soul will always find you – will always hunger for you. I don't even know if I can go on without you … it was never a choice for me. It could never be."

The silence came after that. Long, hard, and punishing.

Mac longed to hold Stella. He wanted to feel her body against his, to tell him that it was all right and that they could be just like they were before, and that this FINALLY, finally solved everything that was bothering them. He could go back to his wife, and then they could continue this relationship that they had, he could have both of his great loves at the same time – as selfish as it sounded -, he needed them both. They would work something out and it wouldn't be …

Stella faced him. Through the imminent brightness, he saw that something changed in her eyes. Something different – something he had never seen there before.

Gradually, her eyelids dropped, and their faces – their lips – were barely apart. Then, with a sigh, Stella delicately kissed him.

_This is wrong,_ his mind shouted, but he found himself opening his mouth for her and then devouring her, with all of what he had left in his system. Her kiss sent through him a shockwave of emotions – of things he never thought he could feel all at the same time. It was everywhere, sensitizing his nerves, making it unable for him to resist her. He had to taste, taste that damn essence of hers that he had avoiding for so long.

_I can't do this,_ his heart thumped again, but he ignored it, snaking his arms around her waist and pressing her wholeness against him, on his body, as tight as he could. He didn't want to have to let go, he didn't want to have to remove his tongue from hers. Every slip of their kiss was delicious, captivating.

Then something in his brain must have exploded after he felt her nip at his bottom lip, for after that, the thoughts were no more. All he could do was feel, breathe, and love her. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else.

* * *

He wondered how he could put into words what they had done and what he needed to face in the future, as consequences to this. He didn't particularly understand if this proved things on so many hidden levels, or if it only disproved different perspectives – most especially of his wife's. Perspectives which declared that what he shared with Stella was only shallow. It certainly wasn't. He constantly believed that the relationship he had with this woman was beyond so many that he possessed in his lifetime. And maybe, the culmination of this relationship – their love making – was only a testament to his personal gospel.

His soul belonged to her, and the incident last night laughed in his face, mocking him, badgering him to admit that _yes_, the assumption that his soul belonged to Stella was an understatement. God dammitt, his whole being belonged to her.

The way she moved underneath him, caressed him, and adored him brought tears to his eyes. He found himself asking her questions as they explored each other: How someone so, so scarred, so frightened, so alone could love like this? How could anyone love someone like him with so much passion, intensity? How could he not have seen it before, with all the time he spent in her company, how could he have been so blind?

Stella would only smile, and then kiss him hard. It was her feeble attempt at shutting him up, but when he would latch his fingers onto her nipple, she'd moan that heavenly guttural sound and he would be free to start speaking again. He liked to think that his voice soothed her, that it brought her to another plane – far from New York, far from all the chaos and reality.

Sometimes, he believed that he DID bring her to another place. Especially when she would arch her back, cry out obscenities that were severely coupled with his name, and close her eyes so tight that droplets appeared at their edges.

He honestly never saw a woman have an orgasm quite like Stella did. She allowed herself to really release, without any deep, angst- ridden emotional insecurities to stop her. When she had sex, she ONLY had sex and she fucked the world off. She made him feel like he was the only man she had ever been with. Ever.

Then, a moment came that evening. He remembered it vividly, as if it continuously replayed in front of his face. He remembered trailing his lips on her abdomen, telling her fervently how much he loved her, how much he wished she could've come sooner, how he wished she could've been the _one_ he married.

Stella stopped breathing for the longest second, freezing in her position, and alarming him. As he waited for her to respond, Guilt came and danced with Stupidity. They had a late Christmas celebration at the back of his brain, kicking his gut until it was beaten to a pulp. He didn't know what she was going to do: Was she about to back out on this? They've already made love, twice, and now … was she going to tell him to get out of her apartment, to disappear? Would she have to run away? From him? After all of this?

He felt her hands on his shoulders, pinching him, asking him to come up and confront her. He did as she had silently requested, and they laid front-to-front, their nudity rubbing against one another's, their insecurities whitewashing below the security.

She grazed a kiss on his cheek and rested a hand on his naked hip.

"If that happened, Mac, do you think it would've been this special? Do you think we could've reached this point?"

_What point?_ He wanted to ask, wondering if they did ever reach any point at all. Maybe this – them - was God's sick way of telling him that he fucked up somewhere. If so, it's not a point, it's a statement. Maybe they were the fulfillment of all he had been working for, maybe it was his payment for all the goodness he had done for her. Then it's not a point, it's a reward.

Honestly, though, he didn't want to care what it was called. He just wanted to love her over and over again, until it was physically impossible for them to move. He wanted to discover every single secret she kept in her body, to imprint the plane of her skin on his tongue, to know which buttons he could push to give her the most amount of pleasure.

After that question, he stopped telling her many things. Guilt and Insecurity boarded a plane ride towards nowhere, and he forgot about everything else. It was only him, her, and the insatiable desire.

But he never did stop telling her that he loved her. She never reciprocated this verbally, but he felt her love for him on the acres of his body. She loved him as if he was the only person in the world for her. As if he was her one and only great true love.

Waking up and opening his eyes, Mac realized that the blizzard had been thoroughly laborious throughout the whole evening. He had hoped the next day would bring with it a fine weather, only to hear the winds howl and thump against the windows. He groaned in disappointment.

"It's still crazy out there."

His attention immediately shifted from the white wonderland outside, to the beautiful, disheveled young woman laying down beside him. It appeared as if she had woken up hours before he did, probably reassessing if the sky had not fallen yet, however not bothering to fix up. Her curly, brown hair was tousled against the faded light blue sheets, her bare shoulders still bearing territorial scratches that he himself made, the Greek necklace was sprawled messily around her neck, her face still sporting a natural flush. A smile was painted lovingly on her lips, crafted as if Van Gogh himself touched her face with his delicate brush.

Seeing her for the first time like this, in this new light, brought to him a warmth he had never experienced before. It felt as if his chest was about to burst into a thousand pieces, with the way his heart beat on it.

Mac leaned down to capture that irresistible smile with his own mouth, and he drank some of her for himself. Afterwards, he straightened up on the headboard, not even bothering to gather sheets around his nakedness.

"Yeah, it still is," he agreed, reaching down to take her hand. "What about here? Still crazy?"

Stella laughed, one that traced fiery shivers down his back. "No, I don't think so." Her smile became naughty, sexy, with one end coming up over the other. "Unless you want it to still be."

He smirked, and slid down so that they could be front-to-front, face-to-face, once again. He loved this position. He could see all of her, and what she readily offered to him. Their noses touched, and if he moved a little bit closer, he could feel her heartbeat knocking on his bare chest.

His arm found her waist, and his hand slid down to her bare ass. Stella bit her lip, and snuggled in closer to his embrace, resting her head on his clavicle.

_This feels right_, he heard his brain whisper. It felt right when she was in his world, when she was his and he was hers. It felt right that he knew that she wasn't going anywhere, that she was stationary. In this bed and in his touch.

He dipped his head to reach her ear, "Do you still want to run, Ms. Bonasera?"

Stella giggled, nibbled the underside of his chin, and shook her head. "You know I couldn't anymore."

"Good," he expressed, genuinely happy for the first time in how many weeks. Because from that moment on, he knew that nothing else mattered to him except who Stella Bonasera was for him, and who they now were to each other.

**END of CHAPTER SEVEN**

* * *

**C/N**: Thanks to everyone who R&R the last chapter. You can draw your own conclusions with this new installment (I know, the muse is being way too happy about recent progressions in the story), but I promise you that clarity will come in the succeeding chapters.

Voting already started in the _CSI Fanfic Awards_, btw. You can vote for _Intro Retrospection_ by sending an email here: csifanficawards at yahoo. You can write in it WIP (CSI: New York) and underneath it, _raingarcia022: Intro Retrospection_. For the complete list of stories that were nominated, you can see it at Livejournal, in the community _csifanficawards._ I'd really, really appreciate your support!


	8. Enjoy The Silence

**A/N: **Spoilers for "_Night, Mother_".

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* * *

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**CHAPTER EIGHT: **Enjoy The Silence

March 23, 1993

Spring was truly his season, Mac decided with a twinge of redress. The sun was warm enough to caress your winter- laden skin without the obtrusiveness that summer brings. Birds chirped hesitantly above everyone's heads, awakening from their long slumbers and stretching their vocal chords for the long months of singing ahead. And the best part of it all was the resurrection of nature around – from the careful crawl of tiny, newborn green leaves from shivering brown branches, to the first flight of children's laughter.

It was also her season, he thought unabashedly, as he sighted the tops of her curly hair from the dismissed crowd of the University. She wore one of her favorite light colored sleeveless tops, as if they were all she received during the Christmas haul. Oranges brought out the pinks of her high cheekbones, pinks highlighted her sharp curves, and his favorite color on her – the striking yellows, created lazy apparitions on her olive skin as she sauntered by, giving her a sun kissed glow that could only rival an Amazonian woman.

Over the months of schooling that she endured, she had made quite a handful of friends, and he liked the idea of a social Stella. He watched her interact from one of the University's accommodating benches, leaning his body back against the cool metal, spreading and draping his arms on it, casually resting his ankle on top of his knee – an arrogant male position, and he couldn't help it. She made him arrogant; she made him proud.

From the distance, Stella pretended to be engrossed in a conversation with a young blonde, but her eyes glazed over the whole front lawn of the grounds. She quickly spotted his figure - despite him being clandestine beneath a large Oak tree's shadow -, and she waved at him coyly. He waved back – as much 'pleasant' as he could muster, silently telling her that she could take all the time she needed. Stella smirked at his obvious pretension for her needs, because she knew that if he had it HIS way – they would be up and running within the next millisecond.

She finally broke free of her passing talks shortly after, and made her way towards him. Two girls lingered behind her, asking her questions and debating amongst themselves, but obviously, Stella had all of her attention readily reserved for him.

Reaching him, she dumped three thick medical books on his lap and sat down. Stella adjusted the straps of her undergarment as she inched closer to his form, but didn't quite fix her attire that well. She started talking, "Professor Chris dumped a whole lot of paperwork for us over the weekend on a new topic we BARELY understood. God only knows how we're going to pass the exam tomorrow."

"EVERYONE knows that you're going to pass the exams, Stella," her raven- haired companion purred, glancing at Mac uncomfortably before returning her gaze to her schoolmate. "You're the only one who understands what that sicko's talking about anyway."

Stella laughed. "No, that's not true. There's Brian," she looked at him and he acknowledged her by fixing her peeking undergarment himself, "but he's such a nerd that no one could talk to him without having to recite the Star Trek code of allegiance."

"Oh, and YOU'RE not a nerd?" he teased, and her eyebrow raised, intercepting him. Mac shook his head and leaned forward to give her a soft kiss on her flushed cheeks – as his 'official' greeting. But before he could give her a second one, Stella cleared her throat and motioned to her friends.

"I forgot to introduce you to … uhh, Mac, this is Andrea and Candace, we all take Physics class together. Guys, this is Mac," she said, then cleared her throat again. "He's my … umm, friend."

"Hey," the blonde (or Candace) greeted, then nudged the brunette (or Andrea). She followed her friend's example and offered him an unsure smile.

Stella sensed the discomfort in the air and decided to break the little powwow. _Why in the hell did these school girls follow her like puppy dogs, anyway? _Mac thought, irritated.

"Guys, I promise to come early tomorrow to help you figure out our exam. Is 10 AM all right?"

The two girls agreed that it was just right, and they bid them both a goodbye. As they walked away, Mac could clearly see them gossiping rapidly, lips flipping in lightning speed.

He gazed at his lover, and decided that it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Charming girls." He curled an arm around her shoulders, and she rolled her eyes. "Haven't they seen a guy kiss a gal on her cheek before?"

"They've seen **you** before, Mac," she defended, crossing her arms, pretending to be huffy about it – but he knew better, of course. "They never quite figure out what we are to each other. I guess I wasn't helping when I said that you're my 'friend'."

"Oh, so I take it that they are not really into the whole secret identity thing that we have going on?"

Stella allowed her lips to tug upwards, a little bit. "Yeah, they don't know a thing, _Batman_."

"Good to hear, _Wonder Woman_."

They smiled, breaking whatever petty annoyance she harbored for him, and decided to start moving for her late lunch. He easily picked up her books with one hand, hauled it against his hip, and protectively laced his other free appendage around her waist. He was content to hear her stories of the whole day, happy that it was her voice filling his ear after a nine- hour shift's worth of cursing criminals, incriminating bosses, and mechanical dispatches. Her sounds – speaking or not – would always be music to his irritated ears.

Before he could even step into his car, she had already grabbed his keys and was fine tuning the ignition. Immediately afterwards, she diverted to the radio, allowing it to sputter to life before turning the knob to one of her favorite radio stations. A new wave of sounds filtered in his car, mostly consisting of drums, mild guitar, and a throaty riff from the lead vocalist.

Mac sat on the driver's side, pretending to be cautious of what Stella was listening to. While she bopped her head to the music ('alternative' genre, it seemed – at least that's what she called it), he retrieved the McDonalds paper bag from the backseat.

"What? Lunch in the car _again_?" Stella jutted her lower lip out. Mac ignored it, despite thinking of how cute she was whenever she acted like a pre-puberty eleven-year-old.

"Why can't we eat somewhere today? Where are we going, anyway?"

"I need to get some papers from the City Hall, from my lawyer, downtown. It's a long drive from here. I thought you'd like to get some late lunch."

"Very, very late lunch," she added, taking the bag and opening it half- heartedly. As she was rummaging through the bag, Mac stepped on the gas to stimulate his valiant steed.

"What in heaven's name is THAT?" he demanded with a hint of annoyance, reaching to turn the radio off. Before he could, she slapped his fingers. He drew back reflexively.

"Stone Temple Pilots, alternative gods extraordinaire." She arched both of her eyebrows, daring him to push another hand forward to stop her music spree. Mac surrendered, tucking a mental note about how he'd make her pay later.

She gulped large portions of her iced tea, and fingered a salty fry with contemplation. As the vehicle began to move into a safe speed, she gingerly chewed on her food.

From the corner of his eye, Mac watched this with slight trepidation. He knew this woman – he ate with her, slept with her, took baths with her, and woke up with her. When she wasn't with him, he constantly thought of her as if she was a perennial ghost that hovered nearby. Every single quirk of her eyes, every single turn of her lips, every single sigh that escaped her mouth --- he memorized them all, stapled them in his cerebral cortex, and he intended to keep them there forever. It was safe to say that any change in her behavior would worry him to the ends of the earth. It was safe to say that he knew when she was bothered.

Of course, she had the tendency to eat like a Central Park horse. One that had been hauling overweight tourists all over New York the whole day – and he meant that as a compliment. Seeing her _chewing_ on a fry wasn't exactly convincing.

"What's going on?" he inquired in a low, hanging voice. It was a tone he used on her whenever he didn't know how to anticipate her next actions --- whether she would start slapping him or fucking him.

Stella finished her fry, shook her head unconvincingly, and took another large sip of her iced tea.

They faced a blinking stop light and he stepped on the breaks. Turning to her, Mac stretched to cup her cheek in his palm.

_Thank God,_ he thought, as he felt her gradually leaning in his touch, rubbing her face on his upturned hand, her long eyelashes brushing against the tips of his fingertips like soft feathers.

Despite knowing her through and through, Mac never ignored the fear at the back of his brain: the one that told him that whenever she wanted – despite of everything they had shared and everything that he had given her -, she could leave him. Flat out; without any qualms. Yes, he could safely say that she was _his_, but the only things he owned were her body and heart. He never could hold her soul, and sometimes in the evenings, he would wake up to just watch over her --- make sure that she was beside him and that she wasn't going anywhere.

He was afraid that she might decide to take up her old hobby of running. She told him otherwise before, but the fear was always there. Mocking him.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he further asked. Stella shrugged.

"Nothing … I don't feel like eating."

"Coming from you, it sounds like an apocalyptic sign from _Revelations_." He further moved closer, brushed ringlets of curls away from the side of her face, and grazed his lips on the back of her earlobe. Goose bumps rose up to meet his kisses.

He motioned to their front, towards the seamless blue skies resting on the road's horizon. "I'm half- expecting the Seven Horsemen to start clopping their way to Manhattan."

He was rewarded with a small laugh.

Mac drew back and returned his attention to driving, seeing that the green light decided to make an appearance just when he believed he was succeeding.

Most of their drive was spent in relative silence, silence that he loved to call as 'comfortable', - for it really was. Small talk passed between them, but when they both knew that they didn't want to bother trying anymore, they stopped, and that was okay.

He avoided comparison, but sometimes he couldn't help it. His relationship with Claire was so far from what he had with Stella. What years he spent building for Claire and their marriage, he had with Stella within three months. There were times in his marriage when he wouldn't know what his wife would think of him when he did a certain action, but with Stella, he was so damn in his element that he could walk butt naked across her apartment – scars and all – and she'd find the good graces to laugh at him, or seduce him to her bed. Not that Stella wasn't as difficult as Claire, but that difficultness only drew him closer to the Greek goddess, making him snap his point of curiosity. Claire's difficultness could oftentimes kill him then and there.

Even if Stella told him to shut up eons ago, he couldn't still help wonder what if she was the _one_ he married. What if he met her a few days earlier than Claire? What if he realized his feelings for her a few days before his wedding?

Nearing downtown, Stella coughed out and toyed with her necklace. Mac kept a smile to himself: She usually played with her necklace whenever her nosiness was piqued.

Within a second, his guess was confirmed:

"What are you going to get from your lawyer? Insurance?" she piped up, a far cry from her mood a while ago.

He grinned. "No - maybe."

"Well, only ONE answer, partner!" she said, sliding closer to his driver's seat. She nestled against him and smoothened his hair at the nape. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

"No." He smirked, and it earned him another irresistible pout.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because I'm telling you after I talk with my lawyer. It's nothing deathly important, I promise you." He made a sharp turn towards the curb, a few steps away from the entrance of the City Hall. He parked leisurely – still wearing that damn smirk- , enjoying the suspense he was keeping his lover in.

He removed his seatbelt and looked at her. Stella had her hands crossed over her breasts, eyes squinted in lethal slits (to his direction, of course), and mouth sporting a more embellished pout.

It was too much for him, so he leaned in and pressed his lips lightly on hers. She was unresponsive at first, trying hard to maintain her image of a woman scorned of good information, but he pressed his finger to her side, she giggled, and it opened her mouth. Mac immediately plunged in, taking time to feel the contours of her insides as if he had never tasted her before, as if he was a foreigner to her vast country. Not long after, her tongue met his and they dueled in a delicious battle, striking each other ferociously. In his brain, he counted the hours since they last kissed, since they last made love, and decided that it was far too long since the last time. He needed to finish his meeting _at once_.

He then wondered vaguely if she was thinking along the same lines --- especially with the way she teased the roof of his mouth with that limber tongue of hers.

He broke their kiss off reluctantly, watched her lick her lips in sweet surprise, and then whispered against her neck that she needed to stay in the car. He was only transacting for a few minutes, and there was no need for her to accompany him.

The trip in and out of the car was a swift one, punctuated by his spry steps, quick hellos to familiar faces, and unanimated goodbyes to those who mattered. His lawyer, Jack Pete, was already up and waiting for him in his office when he arrived. They exchanged an even quicker conversation, with his friend commenting that Mac was in "obvious" hurry (punctuated by a challenging wink). Mac waved him away, gathering the papers that he needed, and shook hands. Their hands were barely apart when Mac started to exit.

Stella was enjoying another spring of those god- awful alternative songs when he appeared at her side. She jumped a little in astonishment.

"Geez, you almost gave me a seizure," she commented, putting a hand on his chest. He leaned into her car window, smiling pleasantly, and enjoying the uncharacteristic surprise he brought to her nerves.

She rolled her eyes and raised her chin to look at him. "Are you done?"

"Yeah," he replied, and that was all he allowed himself to say before crossing over to the driver's side. Stepping in, he felt her eyes scanning his body.

"So you're going to tell me what the papers are for?" She opened her hands to receive the manila folder that he was holding, but he held back, as if suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. The part that he still_ hadn't _explained to her.

"Umm," he stalled, reaching for his seatbelt and clicking himself to safety. "I have to tell you something first, if it's okay."

Stella flipped her hair away impatiently, but managed to retain a façade of calm demeanor. "Okay, then. What do you want to tell me?"

"I talked to Claire this morning."

All cross- sections of either mirth or petty frustration disappeared from her face. These emotions melted into one pot, creating an unreadable expression that he never expected from her: she was nervous when she twirled her finger on a lock of dark brown hair, but her eyes were steadfast as she stared at him and waited for him to continue.

Mac willed himself to stay focused.

"I … we talked about where we are now, what we want to do. She's, still not in the forgiving mood. I wasn't too."

When she spoke, her voice was soft and beaten. His heart ached as she clamored for something to tell him --- as she opened her mouth for a moment, and then found nothing to say. Eventually she did, and just as he expected, her words were sharp and stale.

"Will you ever be in the forgiving mood?"

"I'm not sure," he answered at once, doubted himself for only a minute, then realized that this was the truth. He still loved Claire, he did, but his being belonged to someone else now …

"Stella, the papers –"

"What are they?" Now her voice was shrill, small. _Frightened_.

He shoved them in her direction. He half- expected her to jump back, as if it would scald her, but she didn't. She only accepted them on her lap, though she didn't touch them.

Mac cleared his throat, hating the way she stared at them as if they were such evil things.

Maybe in a way, they were.

"They're divorce papers. I'm filing for a divorce next week."

Stella didn't reply. She only lifted the manila envelope, her face a mask of pure nothingness, then handed them back to him.

Their drive home was spent in more silence. But this time, the silence was far from comfortable.

* * *

The decision for a divorce wasn't one- sided. If it was, then he would never have gone through with it. But the problem was that Claire seemed to want it more than he needed it.

The tone of her voice was predictable as she answered his call. He remembered counting, again – counting how many days they had been apart; counting how many months. Just as she sighed when he said a garbled "hello", he decided that the time they spent without each other didn't matter anymore: they were already on different hemispheres. They were already too far gone.

He never told her about his affair with Stella – never would've dared - however, Claire good- naturedly asked about her so he answered as innocently as he could. Maybe his answer gave it all, because when he finished talking, she gave him her final decision:

"I want this to end. I want YOU to end it."

He could've asked for a second chance, he could've asked for her to stop this charade once and for all. He could've asked her to work for it – they could still work for it, he firmly believed, but his tongue got tied. Through the knot in his throat and inside his accelerating heartbeats, he knew that this was what he wanted, too. He was already in love with another woman, and he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. Claire was already in love with her New- Yorker's life, and she wanted to spend the rest of her days _without_ him.

Stella's reaction to the divorce didn't tatter the plan – nor did it suppress the reinforcement. He wasn't sure what was going in on her mind when he revealed what he and Claire actually talked about, and the days that followed were all a blur. Stella never finished a conversation about the matter, nor did she open one about it. She ignored the whole damn thing as if it never existed – as if it wasn't in front of their faces the whole time. She pretended as if everything was still the same between them.

By the end of the weekend, he stopped trying to open up to her about it. He just gave up and told himself that when it's all said and done, that was when she'd surely give the divorce some attention. Because after it, they were going to get more serious with each other.

Of course, destiny had other plans.

Mac came home late one evening, past his shift, and he knew he was in for a whole lot of ribbing. He promised Stella that he'd be home at 11 PM, but somehow, time escaped him as he was interrogating a robbery suspect. He wasn't the type of person who prioritized his job BEFORE his personal life, so he vehemently wondered if he was gestating into something inhuman right then and there. After the rigid questioning, he took a quick look at his wristwatch and realized that it was past midnight. He was a dead duck.

He entered the apartment as stealthily as he could, trying hard to not rouse Stella from her hard- earned sleep, but he was surprised to find that the TV in the living room was open, that he could view Stella's silhouette sitting aimlessly on the couch, and that she was still very much awake. She had a tough day in school, and when they talked on the phone that afternoon, she sounded really depressed about the way she had handled her daily tests. She mentioned that she was so tired and emotionally incapable that she was going to sleep the whole evening off. With a warning crescendo, she told him that he better be home by 11 or _else_.

He didn't think she was THAT serious.

"Stella?" he called out softly, taking time to drop off a bag of cinnamon bagels on the kitchen counter before hurrying towards her form.

She didn't answer at first, and when he neared her, he realized why.

She was crying.

Mac stood in front of her and he thought he heard his heart break. _God, what IS going on, _he thought as he kneeled down before her and cradled her hand in his grip.

She was nestled in his velvet bathrobe, and it was draped on her body as if she didn't care if she showed any skin or everything at all. Her right shoulder peeked, the garment falling until the tops of her breast – only a few inches before complete nakedness. A long slender leg was also propped on the couch, uncovered and _cut_. Mac shook his head as he inspected an 'X' of bandages on her knee, and discovered on his own that it was probably done during her shaving.

What was most striking was her curly hair wildly flailing on her shoulders, hiding almost all of her face. But it wasn't enough to hide from him the flagellation of her usually perfect features: Her eyes and nose were horrendously red, her lips trembled as if the simplest touch could break her into a thousand little pieces, and her cheeks were angrily flushed. The glow of the TV bounced on her slick skin, creating an eerie blue madness on her olive epidermis.

He removed flowing strands of her hair so that he could fully see her face. He tucked them behind her ear, still holding her hand tightly against his chest. "Stell, what's wrong? Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?" He could've gone home early with just the slightest emergencies --- if she called him to proclaim that she cut herself during shaving, he would've flown from the NYPD to her side. He could do that, just for her.

She didn't answer, only extending her free hand to grab a tissue from the coffee table. Mac gritted his teeth, not understanding which was happening first: his heartbreak or hers.

"Is it what you're watching?" he tried, then craned his neck to see what was on the tube. It was only CNN.

He returned to her. "Stella, tell me what's going on with you. I almost couldn't recognize you lately --- one minute you're threatening me, the next you're crying here all alone. One minute you're annoyed by me, the next minute –"

He wasn't able to finish the sentence. He supposed that he wasn't meant to, because her mouth was on his within the next instant. Hot, wet, and livid like an electrical jolt from a livewire. She was suddenly everywhere.

The notion in his head popped, and he couldn't help but acknowledge it:

_One minute you're annoyed by me, the next minute you're all over me_.

Stella groped him with a surge of desperation that his head swam with pure desire. Her hands were tearing his jacket off, his tie off, his shirt off, and before he knew it, he was half- naked. Her fingernails raked on his chest and he hissed, feeling the uncertain prick of pain and pleasure.

She only paused to tear her lips away from his, allowing them enough moments to keep their lungs oxygenated, then she undid the lousy knot of his robe and slid them off of her body. It pooled at her knees, and that was only when he realized that she had maneuvered herself from the couch down the floor. Mac's eyes were on the discarded material, then he saw her bare kneecaps. His eyes drew upward, and he realized another thing: she was naked underneath the robe.

Mac's wholeness swelled with passion. _Jesus, she is fucking beautiful_.

That was something he could never dispute, for even in her worst times, she WAS beautiful.

Stella anchored a hand on the floor, just beside his legs, and crouched down to touch his belly with her mouth. His muscles tensed as her wet kisses trailed a fiery ascent from his stomach and up to his nipples, then to his clavicle. Her other hand held his neck in place, and she kissed the tiny dots of sweat that he never knew were there.

Mac closed his eyes, at the same time that he felt her eyelashes flutter on his jaw line. She rested her forehead on his chin and whispered the words that he never expected to hear that evening:

"I love you, Mac."

He didn't give it any second thought – the fact that it was the first time she had the courage to tell him that, or the fact that with just those words, everything was forgotten. It was as if he never saw her crying that evening, as if she was never so confusing to him, as if he never existed before that moment, before that single moment that she finally opened her heart to him.

All he knew was that he was going to make her feel his response, just like she did that first night. No words were needed; they were going to enjoy the silence.

Mac cupped her face tenderly, took some time to memorize the feel of her skin against his rough fingertips, then gazed into her hazel eyes. He stared at her pools of green diamonds intensely, trying to imprint in the unreachable part of him every line, every twinkle, every tear.

Just when he thought he was able to see through her soul, she broke their trance and kissed him hard.

* * *

He woke up, his head was clear, the sun was up in the sky, the sheets were warm, and the TV still hummed softly in the living room.

But she was alreadylong gone.

Mac sat up, his teeth gritting so hard he almost felt one of his morals breaking. The cool air cascaded on his naked flesh; he shuddered. Forlornly, he tried his best to not look at her side of the bed, even as he put on his boxers, even as he opened her closet to find that there was nothing in there anymore, even as he punched the closet door.

Splinters penetrated his skin, and small flecks of blood danced on his knuckles. He disregarded this and walked out of the room, as if hoping to still see her there outside – dancing her ass to Joni Mitchell, with those short shorts and an oversized "ILOVE NY" t- shirt.

The living room was bare.

He moved to the kitchen, his hands in his hair now, his eyes swelling painfully. His mind was a dreadful blank, but his emotions were overflowing, too much that it hammered on his rib cage, as if threatening to tear through his tissues. A tear fell, then a thought came.

_One minute you're next to me, telling me you love me, the next minute you're running away. The next minute, you're gone. _

Mac bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

He crept closer to the kitchen counter, almost staggering to the cold table as his legs seemed to give up on him, and he found what he was looking for atop the bag of bagels he bought her last night.

Picking up the note with shaking hands, he read it silently:

_Mac,_

_You once asked me if I could try. Well, I did. I tried and I tried, and before I knew it, two years had passed. I tried all the way, and I think I made it. But this is as far as I can go. _

_I once told you that I could never, ever leave you. Forgive me if I lied. Not because I had to but because that was my truth back then. Now, I can't stay here with you anymore. _

_You once told me that your soul belonged to me. If that's true, then it'll prove itself someday. _

_I love you, and believe me when I tell you that the hardest part about all this bullshit is that it is true - I DO love you, but this is all that I can do for now. I tried, we BOTH tried, but it wasn't enough. _

_Don't try to look for me. Go back to her, she needs you more than I ever will. _

_Stella_

The note fell to the floor.

The tears came so hard and so arrogantly that it was beyond him, and his legs buckled. He collapsed on the floor, on his knees, and the pain was there. It shrieked against his muscles as they were assaulted, then it began to chew on his heart. Mac reeled in shock, and tried to regain himself. But before he could, the thoughts suddenly came.

Loud and taunting.

He KNEW that she would eventually leave. He KNEW that she was lying to him all along, he was expecting this and when he woke up, he felt it. He FELT that she was gone, he felt that it was the end. Last night, when they made love, she gave him everything that she could that he wanted to ask her why, but he never gotten around to it. When she held him afterwards, she held him so tight he almost couldn't breathe, and he wanted to ask her why, but goddamn it, he fell asleep. He FUCKING fell asleep.

He still wanted to ask her why, why she had to leave him like this, but she was gone. He was never going to see her again, he was never going to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her …

Mac shoved his palms over his ears - his forehead pressing on the ground and touching the pool of wetness his tears created - wanting for the thoughts to stop coming, however, they only grew louder. He sobbed, his own disgruntled voice sounding so small and petrified.

He closed his eyes shut, needing the silence.

Like her, the silence never came back.

* * *

**C/N: **_Eternal thanks_ to everyone who made it possible for this fanfic to win the **CSI Fanfic Award**. You can say that this chapter is a _thank you_ chapter, since this answers most of the questions that has been raised in previous installments. _Most_, not _all_, though.

Thanks to everyone who R&R too. Do keep them coming, they make me extensively happy and progressive!

The decision to break the flashback-present-flashback sequence of the story was longtime coming. I knew that it was going to happen eventually, so I decided to use it on this two chapters because of its continuity. I also decided that it was time to answer some of those questions that the story created.

If you guess which part serves as spoilers for _Night, Mother_, then you **really** are a CSI:NY fan. Heh.


	9. My Soul, My Love

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE: **My Soul, My Love.

May 18, 2005

_"Come, fill the Cup and in the Fire of Spring  
__The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:  
__The Bird of Time has but a little way  
__To fly – and Lo! The Bird is on the Wing."_

_-_ Omar Khayyam (seventh quatrain of the _Rubaiyat)_.

_The stairs were steep and uneven, and when she climbed them, she did so with fright as to own her balance. Outside, she could hear the silent dread of the world as it slept in the stealth, as it bathed in the stealth. But inside her heart, she could hear and feel the panging pain of being too old to still be climbing those uneven steps - to still be wondering what would become of her tomorrow when the sun rises- , yet too young and immature to feel the tiny gurgle of life in her arms. _

_As she reached the final step of the rickety foundation, the baby against her bosom yawned and snuggled into her warmth. _

Stella ascended up the glorious stairs of the Crime Lab, her heels clicking against the seemingly newly- constructed marble steps. She whipped her curly hair to one side with a determined steel to her actions, brushed the remaining strands from her face, then clutched tightly against her side a thickened manila envelope.

Upon finding herself in front of the custodian's 'checkpoint' (where every CSI has to sign in and out before entering or leaving the lab), her shoulders tensed. She craned her neck to see who was minding the station for the morning shift, and then sighed happily when she realized that it was one of the old timers --- Mr. Craig, someone she was familiar with and had even joked with more than a handful of times before. The kindly old man was busy with another senior CSI, talking in hushed tones and they (just as she wanted) had their backs to her.

Feigning ignorance, as if it was just a normal working day, she unclipped her ID from her jacket's lapel and swiped it on the scanner. A resounding 'ping' came from the computer, signaling her entrance to the lab _and_ also her presence.

In surprise, Mr. Craig looked over his shoulder and checked out who it was.

Stella continued to walk towards the entrance, not daring to bat an eyelash.

Mr. Craig cut his conversation short, sprung out of his chair, took her by her forearm gently, and pulled her aside. Stella rolled her eyes at the intervention, but wasn't completely surprised by it. She was just hoping to be able to sneak in. Somehow.

The elder CSI, Jan Patricks, met her eyes and gave her a weak, guilty smile. With just that, Stella already knew who they were talking about a while ago.

"I need to see Mac Taylor," she said at once in her defying tone, making sure to skip the apologies and explanations. They all knew what was going on and what _scandale_ she had brought upon the whole crime lab. They all knew the basics probably better than she did.

The last thing she needed to do was to sulk in a corner and wait for the world to come back to normal. No; she was going to deal with this before it all blew up in her face.

"Ms. Bonasera," Craig whispered, his brows coming to meet at the middle. "Please, you're on a _leave_. You're not supposed to be here right now … you need to rest for a few days. Orders are that you're not supposed to enter the lab –"

"Well then, if that's the case …" Stella took off her ID and handed it to the guard. "Here. Take the damn thing and give me a visitor's pass."

Seeing the situation flourish beyond their expectations, Patricks already vacated the site and began to innocently wander off to other CSIs. By the time she was waving the ID in front of Craig's face, a small crowd began to gather at the other side of the glass windows.

The elderly guard's deep amethyst eyes followed the movement of her card in front of his nose, then sighed and raised his hand to take it from her. But before he could, she suddenly heard a booming voice from the voluminous pack of idle investigators:

"It's okay. I need to see her," the unmistakable baritone of Mac Taylor crashed in, and she heard saw the mob beginning to dissemble with a tinge of disappointment.

Stella tightened her grip on the manila envelope. No, she wasn't going to look at him. No, she wasn't going to act as if this is his final rectitude: his lasting need to save her from whatever pit she had landed on this time around. No, she was capable of saving herself now.

She clipped on her ID, thanked Craig coolly, and turned around to head towards the entrance of the lab. Mac waited for her to reach his side before walking after her, allowing her to take the lead and silently admonishing critical stares from fellow colleagues as they passed by.

She held her head high despite of the unheard, discriminating words that were there. In this moment of weakness, she knew that she had no choice but to fight – if not for her daughter, but for herself. So that she could prove that she had been living her own life to the best of her abilities. So that she could prove to him that she had actually been doing this all along: living _without _him.

They climbed up Mac's office, the glare of the early New York sun striking her face as she entered his space. She shielded her eyes from the prying rays, standing still in the middle of his office for a minute. She was acting as if she really was a visitor; as if she hadn't been working by his side for the past eight years.

Behind her, she heard him close the door, then drew down the blinds to keep the gossiping contemporaries below from channeling more rumors about their untimely meeting. Mac moved past her and onto his desk, curiously eyed her as he sat down on his throne, and then motioned to one of the vacant seats before him.

"Stell, please take a seat."

She snapped out of her reverie, shrank away from the morning UV rays, and then took her place in front of him. She crossed her legs with her classic determination, placed the manila envelope on his desk, and shoved it in his direction.

_She wasn't running away. _

_Those were the words that were fervent whispers in her mind as the apartment door opened with a slight creak to its hinges. _

_She never wanted the pity, but it must've been a pitiful sight in itself: her hair was oily and disastrous, having forgone shower for days (she eventually stopped counting by the third day). She was still wearing one of those baggy I LOVE NY t- shirts that she used as her maternity clothes for the remaining months of her second trimester, including an even baggier denim jeans that she practically swam in. She lost a lot of weight over the past week after giving birth, because she couldn't eat or sleep. She wasn't back in her old size, but she was despicably too thin for someone who just had given birth. _

_And it showed on her face. She knew that she looked like she aged ten years --- and the mirrored flood of concern in her friend's eyes confirmed that. _

_"Oh God Stella," her blonde, blue- eyed, and fastidiously clean friend gasped. She opened her arms for her, offering to lend her a hand with the baby, but Stella refused with a weak nod and a plastic smile. _

_"Do come in, please." The acquaintance led the way into her apartment, brushing through the beautiful pieces of adornments that were scattered across her living room. Stella stood dumbfounded by the door for a second, keeping her head down to avoid more of the pitiful stares that her friend was throwing at her. _

_"Stella?" her friend called out, unsure of what to expect. _

"Stella?"

She blinked hard and then gazed up - only to unexpectedly meet Mac's unnerving eyes. "Umm," she started, blinked again, then made sure that she was staring at something else when she reopened her eyes. "Having been given a three- day leave by your office, I've pulled every string I could in the NYPD task force yesterday. And in other different bureaus that I could reach."

"So I heard from Flack," he said, taking the envelope and opening it. He waited for her to start talking again before pulling out the first file inside.

"That first file is a copy of the last will and testament of Mrs. Seferhs. If you turn to page three," she gestured for him to do so and he did, following her trail of thought. "On the seventh paragraph, that is where the Pink Spanish Heart discussion starts. She strictly states that –"

"- '… _my precious diamond, The Pink Spanish Heart, be handed down personally to my daughter,_ _Little … _Estella_ …_'" Mac trailed off, shook his head, and opened his mouth to read again. No words came out.

"Mac?" Stella pushed, wanting to just hear his voice. She still refused to look at his face.

He settled the papers down, then clasped his fingers together, over the documents. It was where Stella decided to settle her stare, but when she did, she was struck to find his intertwining fingers clasped together tightly, his knuckles turning white, and that his arms were trembling.

One thought escaped her head, and she wished it didn't, because the moment it came into her consciousness, she had no other choice but to actually LOOK at him.

_Oh no._

This was it. It was happening; right now, in front of her.

Just by seeing the tensing - almost erupting line - of his jaw, the shorter breathes that he was taking, the defeated stalk of his shoulders, his face marred with too much emotions that she was afraid he was about to break, and his eyes … they held the soul of the man she met after that desperate day three years ago. It held the man who loved too much and then, lost too much. Those eyes, those eyes that she was seeing that moment, they were the eyes that told her that whatever may happen --- SHE would forever own his heart.

She. _Claire._

Stella's mouth dropped open. Her hand flew up reflexively to cover her anguish.

_Her name was Christina, an old high school classmate in fourth period, Algebra – one of her favorite subjects. She forgot what her last name was, but it didn't matter. She was too embarrassed to ask and at the same time, too pained to even think about it. She just forced herself to remember that damn name, to tuck it in the deepest drawers of her cerebellum, and make sure that it stayed there until the end of her silver lining. _

_Christina reached over gingerly, gauging the gravity of Stella's degraded tower of strength, then pulled her hand away from her mouth. She tightly held her hand against her bosom, squeezed it hard, then motioned to the sleeping infant that was laid on the opposite couch. _

_"Stella, are you REALLY sure that you want to let her go?" _

_She was stoic. How could anyone have a ready answer for a question like that? _

_Her friend sighed. "Do you think it … is really best to give her away without even … telling the father?" Stella drew her hand back, but Christina firmly held it in place. "I know what kind of life this little girl will be living … she'll live a great, luxurious life. Probably better than what you could give her, but honey," she tilted Stella's chin to force her to understand – if not, listen, "there's nothing BETTER than your love for her." _

_Stella shook her head stubbornly. "There's nothing I can give her. There's nothing left in me to give." _

_Then she remembered. That necklace … that piece of shit she kept on wearing around her neck as if it was a badge of his love, as if it could prove what she could NEVER prove to him. Or now, to her baby._

_She broke her contact with Christina and reached behind her to unclasp the necklace. Then, she held it before her eyes to study the intricate patterns on the golden plate, to read what it had said all along: _

Η ψυχή μου, η αγάπη μου.

_He once told her that someday, she would learn to read Greek. _

_Stella's lower lip trembled, but she refused to let the tears fall. They've been falling for quite sometime now. _

My soul, my love.

_"This is all I can give her." Stella handed the jewelry to her friend. She made sure that her eyes were diverted towards her peripheral when she let it go. Just as she didn't want to see how she left him, she also didn't want to see how it was to REALLY stop loving him. _

"Is this all you … can give me?" he asked, voice breaking into almost inaudible syllables.

Stella wanted to grab his hand, sink him into her embrace, and make sure that he was there and that he was feeling her. Years ago, that was all it took to calm him, to give him a semblance of peace within his usually troubled heart … but now, it was different. Just as time eventually revealed the good in her life, time also revealed the past. The past that they could never, ever run away from.

And this past would always hang over their heads like decapitated warriors of their memories. It was not for ignorance; nor was it for remembrance. It was there to deal with. And SHE had to deal with it.

"What do you want to know, Mac?" she whispered, as if frightened that saying the past out loud would anger the world. "I think Danny already told you a lot of what _I_ know, too."

He swallowed, hard, then his grip around his fingers was suddenly even more unyielding. This made a nervous shudder run through Stella's spine.

"Why didn't YOU tell me?" he demanded, strong and livid, as if he was about to snap at any second and start becoming violent.

Stella calmed herself. She knew this side of his and she knew what Mac was capable of, just as she knew what he _wasn't_ capable of. This hidden, darker Id of his would startle her every now and then, but she also _knew_ of her capabilities. And if there's one thing she could do to this man … it was that she could always put him back to serenity, whatever the situation.

"I never told you because … she was never meant to be," she answered simply, trying to keep the hitch out of her voice.

Mac shook his head in natural defiance. "Telling me wouldn't have made a difference, Stella."

"Telling you would. Because you know just as much as I do now that she IS _yours_. And nothing could change the fact that she's a … love child." She breathed in slowly, hating the way the words were rolling off of her mouth after all these years of avoiding them. "I couldn't let her live with that knowledge. Could you, Mac? WOULD you?"

"No," he agreed. But before she could settle in relief, he raised his head to capture her eyes and suddenly, they were twelve years younger. Back to that fateful last night, when she held him in her arms for the last time. That last night when he gazed into her eyes so brutally she felt that she was being stripped naked of her body and all that was left of her was her soul. She broke their trance because she knew that if she allowed him to, she never would have the strength to leave him.

Now, she was naked before him and dear Jesus, she had no other choice but to let him stare her down until she felt that she was only a soul grinding against the raw earth.

Mac made a flinching move to catch her hand and burn his imprint on it, but he stopped midway, as if suddenly remembering the repercussions this action could cause their already shaky foundation. He instead chose to add something else to that one-phrase agreement of his.

"Tell me now that she's mine, Stella."

"You already have the proof, right?" she tilted her head towards the gamut of papers on his desk, assuming that one of them there was the paternity test for her AND him. It was no debate for her intuition – that the moment Mac learned about the necklace and her paternity test, that he would be asking for his own.

In answer to this, Mac only raised his eyebrows. He didn't give her much – and even if it was rude, she felt that she deserved every inch of it.

Stella raised her palms towards him, as if wanting to initiate the end of their discussion. "Then what more do you need from me? You have everything you need to know right at your fingertips. I AM the one on leave, remember?"

"What I want from you," he voiced, barely above a murmur. "Is the truth. The one you ran away from twelve years ago."

"I didn't run away from anything, Mac –"

"You ran away from ME."

"That was … reflexive. I left because I was destroying our lives."

"You didn't go because of the baby?"

"That was already part of it …"

"When did you know?"

"Know _what_?"

"That you were pregnant?"

Stella stopped dead in her tracks, as if she came face-to-face with a roaring container truck.

Mac prodded further, his eyes digging into her like two iris-shattering headlights. "WHEN?" he insisted shrilly.

"I knew … three days before I left. I – I took a pregnancy test beforehand and … had, uhh, had a doctor check me in the University."

"That doesn't seem so reflexive now, does it?"

"Don't ask me to justify this, Mac, because you know I won't." Because she knew that she _couldn't_. There were not enough words in someone's lexicon to justify the fact that she had kept his own child from his knowledge all these years --- all these years that they had been working together. And she didn't just keep it from him, she also had to break their hearts long ago. For running away, every fucking time.

God, she wanted to cry. Stella thought about the pleasure of squeezing a few droplets out of her heavy eyelids, the superficial reprieve it would give her even heavier heart, and the sympathy it would illicit out of this person in front of her.

However, she had cried about this a million times last night. And she was at the point of honestly thinking that yes, she had cried herself out. There was nothing left to give.

And because she had nothing else to give, even breathing hurt. Every breath that she took were pinpricks of cactus leaves somewhere deep in her lungs, that sometimes with just the slightest inhalation of air, she recoiled.

"I won't ask you to justify, Stella," Mac said, his voice dropping down a notch. "But I will tell you that you NEVER destroyed our lives. Our lives were never destroyed; in all actuality, you _made _mine." He licked his lips unsteadily, "What did you name her?"

"Estella. So that she would always live within her Mother's name."

"Oh, so Mrs. Seferhs kept her name. You gave her the necklace?"

"Yes. I did … to have a piece of _us_ always with her –"

"Will you be willing to be in an interview with Flack this afternoon? For official records in this matter?" he spitted out with such a casual tremor that she inexplicably wanted to strangle him right then and there. "We believe that you could offer us some clues in this investigation …"

"This is MY investigation, Mac! You can't keep me out of my daughter's case!"

"She is also my daughter, so this is technically OUR case. I have jurisdiction."

"Jurisdiction my ass! This is the reason why you had to give me a leave, right? So that you can proclaim your own _jurisdiction_?" Stella stood up from the chair and crossed her arms firmly before her. "You don't own me anymore, Mac. I think you keep failing to notice that I'm different now, and that I'm not your patsy anymore!"

"Really?" he countered, with a voice that was intertwined with cool steel. "Then how come you've been running away from this fact for the past eleven – twelve - years? God dammitt, Stella! That wasn't fair!"

"You should know a lot about being fair!" she shot back, not removing her eyes off of his aggravated expression. "Was it fair that you had to love me despite being committed to someone else? Was it fair that you asked me to come back to New York even if - even if I've shitted on everything that we've had before? Was it fair that you had to find out about this now when I've done my best to hide it from the fucking world? Was it fair that she had to die and leave us -"

Stella felt her tongue roll back in her mouth, then helplessly watched as Mac's face paled.

Whatever fury that was present in his system drained from his blood, as if he was shot point blank in his artery, as if SHE shot him point blank without even thinking twice.

"Mac, I didn't mean to bring her up ---"

"No, Stella, you're right," he said with a small voice, waving a weak hand in front of their faces. "You're right --- nothing IS fair between us. I loved you so damn much it – so blindly, so stupidly – that it almost killed my marriage, a marriage to the woman that I _truly _love. I should've been with her back then – but no, I was with you. And then you left me. That wasn't so fair, was it?" He sighed, looking down on his polished shoes. "I asked you to come back, even if Claire didn't want to, and that wasn't fair to both of us, was it? I was so overwhelmed by your presence – by seeing you again – that I was willing to compromise whatever shit you did just to have you near me again. That wasn't fair to Claire, was it? Or EVEN to me.

"And now, you tell me that we have a daughter. A _daughter_, Stella. You know … how much it means to me, how much I WANTED a child of my own …" he choked, and pushed his arms underneath his chest to suppress the tension. Stella lost all of her self- control, and stinging tears began to prick her reddened cheeks.

"… I would've accepted her, Stella. Claire would've accepted her – she would've, especially after you left. It would've been different, it wouldn't have been this way. Maybe … she wouldn't have died, too."

"Mac, please …"

"That isn't so fair, is it? I'm not blaming you for anything, and believe me when I tell you that I still don't, because that's the truth. How could I blame you, Stella, when I've loved you too much before that until now, I still feel a drop of that fucked up love? I _feel _because of you, Stella. When you left, I felt so many things I stopped getting good sleep. When you came back, I felt so much for Claire that our marriage changed for the better. When she died, you were there, and I felt safe. And now, look --- I don't know what I'm feeling again."

She shook her head, wiping the wetness off of her face with the back of her hand. "Don't try to define what you're feeling, Mac. I defined what I felt for you and look at me --- I'm still here. I'm still _feeling_."

"I know that." He stared up and met her eyes.

It was then that they were twelve years older again. Twelve years and so much more, for the past finally caught up with them.

She smiled feebly and walked towards him. Pressing her front against his carefully, she placed a hand on his cheek and then kissed him lightly on the lips. As their lips touched, tears rolled down her cheek and onto his mouth.

_Her eyes were his – dark green that turned gray in darkened rooms. Her fingers were his – strong but needy at the same time, clasping her thumb in what seemed like a desperate attempt to make her stay. And those lips, those were his lips. The lips of the man she would never escape. _

_"Say your goodbye, Stella," Cristina urged, standing before her at the kitchen door, blocking the only light that was present in the whole apartment. This caused a long shadow in her direction, causing more grayness to play in her daughter's eyes. _

_She leaned in, taking the baby's hands in her own and kissing them fervently. She let them go, as the baby cooed happily, and then fixed the necklace around her daughter's neck. She looked at the inscribed message on the pendant and felt a tear slide down her chin. She watched as it fell on her baby's T- shirt, watched as it stained the whiteness of the fabric. _

_"Don't forget that I will always love you no matter what, Estella," she whispered tenderly. She closed her eyes and kissed her smooth cheeks, hating the way her daughter's face lit up at the feel of her warmth and at the sound of her hushed voice. _

_Then, before she started to completely sob, she stood up and turned her back to the baby._

Stella turned around and was almost out of Mac's office when she heard him whisper her name. She froze in her steps.

"Report back tomorrow. We're going to review what evidences we have with the team."

She didn't turn around, knowing that it would be best that she didn't, but she nodded her head in compliance.

**END of CHAPTER NINE**

* * *

**C/N: **I think I'm misinterpreted when it comes to some aspects of this story. To make things clear, I'm not dictating on the history of CSI: NY when I wrote that Mac and Stella had an affair, or that Mac was almost on the brink of a divorce with Claire, or that Claire had these kinds of attitude. These things maybe hard pills to swallow, but I did indicate in the first chapter that this is leaning towards A/U – or _alternate universe_. Meaning that this is _purely_ fiction. Whatever I write here are for the story's betterment, for the artistic license that comes when you're an author with a story in your palms.

Within myself, all I've asked when I started this story was for open minds. I got a lot of open minds and I'm very thankful for them, but I also got some close ones. I can't please everyone (and I won't even try to), but I make sure that I explain my side and that I defend my story. As a writer, that's part of my job description.

I don't need everyone to "buy" my story. But I think every story out there deserves some amount of respect.

(If you don't get what I'm talking about – ignore me. Heh.)

Oh, and as usual, thanks to everyone who continue to read my story (for being open- minded) and who continue to R&R, despite the late updates and the bashings. I truly, truly appreciate every single bit of your attention.


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